


Love is a rebellious bird

by FavoritadelRe



Category: Political RPF - France 21st c.
Genre: A lot of opera references and too many reads about macron, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I am writing this as a sort of exorcism on myself, opera - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 51
Words: 158,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19785667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FavoritadelRe/pseuds/FavoritadelRe
Summary: A story about politics and opera in the times of social networks when no out of tune note can be hidden.





	1. I- Overture

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I write something like this AND decide to share it with the world, just because I can't sleep and I am already in Hell. English is not my first language so you will probably find typos and gramatical mistakes in the text. I apologize for all these. Of course some of the characters are real and living people but the story is fictional and in a great deal they have little to do with their real counterparts. Even if I like to add "accurate" stuff about them, see notes. I don't really know where this will go since it's mostly improvised. With that, enjoy if you can, read and post your comments, critics and suggestions if you want to. IF you feel lost with that the opera references, then I left some notes at the end of the chapter!

**I**

**_Overture_ **

> **2017**
> 
> **_(...)It is fortunate that Mrs. Elena Mendieta, whose name has been familiar to opera goers after this young soprano stood for the sick Mrs.Ardeleanu in the HD broadcast of La Scala's last Traviata,followed by the success of her first record, justified the hopes Paris Opera had in her powers, even if the stravagant praise from her sponsors seems premature. It is absurd to assert that she is, as stated by certain of our fellow critics, a new Callas, a comparison that has already doomed many promising sopranos through the years. But there is no telling what this young woman may eventually attain given her talents and her progression. But it must be acknowledged: her success last night was nothing short of sensational._ **
> 
> **_We close this review from Opéra Bastille and the opening night of Verdi's_ ** **La Forza del Destino** **_with a lighter note. Even if not as frivolous as Milan's Sant'Ambrogio, the season premiere attracted well known faces from Parisian social and political stardom (...). Particularly from the political stardom, since the freshly elected President of the French Republic Emmanuel Macron and his wife Brigitte, more than two decades her senior, were present at the event. They later greeted the artists. Both Mr. Macron and Mrs. Mendieta exchanged compliments, joking about sharing the same initials and having briefly met before their respective meteoric rises._ **

On board the plane that was taking the presidential delegation to Brussels, Sylvain Fort was nonchalantly reading the review from _Palcoscenico_ , a relatively recent and irreverent website dedicated to opera and classical music reviews. He felt he had spent centuries without music during the electoral campaign, so attending the performance had been like finding fresh water after a long journey through the desert. Besides, he had to write something about it for _Forum Opera_ , his own site (1). An editorial, not a review. He found _Palcoscenico_ 's one lacking in style; the author had ranted for two paragraphs about the production, stolen some expressions from an antique review easily found on the Met Archives - a review from the beginning of the 20th century about a performance of that same opera starring Rosa Ponselle, nothing less! - and closed it with that little scene between the soprano and the president. Which was completely irrelevant for the performance and left a slight taste of malevolence towards Brigitte. The photo of the presidential couple at the soprano's loge posted by _Palcoscenico_ 's twitter account and widely shared. Mrs. Mendieta with her revealing gown, once she had got rid of her costume from Act IV, the bodyguards looking at her body, she looking at the president's lips, the president looking at the framed Rossini autograph he was holding, Brigitte seeming distant and upset. All kind of comments were shared just under that tweet. Many, if not most of them, unpleasant.

Not that Emmanuel really cared a bit, he thought locking his iphone screen to look at the president, who was sitting just across the airplane hall. He didn't believe on the hysteria of social networks, which he made use of, but _at the same time_ regarded as too superficial. Newspapers and books, yes, they were something solid and long-lasting for him. But not Twitter or 24-hour rolling news and weather channels, which he despised. Casually seated, one of his sempiternal blue dossiers on the table, he was reading the last report on Brexit. Now and then, he would stop over a word, underline it with his blue pen and mumbled something under his breath. This time, and since the stay in Brussels was short, Brigitte wasn't coming; for a long official visit she would follow her husband. For two days - or rather one and a half - of EUCO, it wasn't worth the trouble. She struggled to hide it, but she disliked flying and it was usual for whoever sat at her side during landing to end with a bruised hand. Well, that would not be her husband today.

The president, on the other hand, was generally stoic and unflappable even flying into storms, with the plane lurching and bumping, and passengers not yet panicking but reaching for the seat handles. Maybe it was because he had experienced already his plane being hit by lightning (well, not exactly his, but Hollande's on his very first day as elected president) or because he had seen with his very own eyes how an aviation accident -and its victims - looked like and was fatalist about it (2). Who really knew. He was difficult to grasp, a strange mix all together, a man that wouldn't flinch with lightnings flashing through porthole windows and the plane shaking but who could still blush like a schoolboy when his dog misbehaved before the cameras. Unlocking his phone again, Sylvain took a breath and decided to read the review from _Il Corriere della Grisi (_ 3). As expected, it was a carnage.

Sibeth Ndiaye came to sit next to her president, bringing a cup of coffee and a croissant with her. Of course he hasn't bothered with breakfast (just like he didn't bother with sleep), or with ordering something before the take off, and there she was again, bringing him something to eat before he died from hunger. She got a smile in exchange, and a hint of a mischievous light in his blue eyes over the coffee cup, that reminded her of more adventurous times. The campaign had been more or less like this, when they - the talented and insufferable group of thirty-somethings that surrounded the young candidate - had veiled over him. When he was theirs and no one except Emmanuel thought seriously they had a chance. But he had convinced them, just like he had managed to win over that journalist who had came to cover all the candidates with irony in her eyes and parted from him drawing hearts on the wagon's window at the railway station.

Did she miss these times? The _mormons, a_ s the aforementioned group of insufferable talented thirty-somethings called themselves, had been at his side, night and day - since he barely slept and could send messages at inverosimile hours, sometimes with a strange profusion of smileys - had helped him to change his damp shirts and listened to his questions about how the speech went while still recovering his breath, had heard him sing as the baritone they hired had recommended and had witnessed how one morning just after dawn, on board a train, the indefatigable candidate had finally fallen asleep on his seat, thus showing that he was no cyborg after all.

Most of these intimacy with the candidate had vanished after his win, and him stepping with astonishing fervor in the role of the President, the one whose dark suits were impeccably cut and who was capable of calling out Putin while standing at his side. And of course there was Brigitte. Sibeth didn't have any problems with her, but thought several of the mormon group were _jealous_ of her. To the extent of erasing her from a book they had prepared about the presidential palace. Everyone had a place on its pages, from the Republican Guard to Nemo. Everyone except Brigitte. She had been vexed, and the president furious. And the book never saw the light.

“You can recognize idiots at how they dare everything. Look at Farage for example. He dared to lie at all these people's face” he said, breaking the silence; Of course, when time arrived to face the consequences, he had lost his effrontery in some campaign bus. And now” he smirked I am forced to have lunch with him”

It was true; the lunch with Farage was on the schedule. People would frown at it, but whatever was his opinion on the guy, he would treat him politely. Maybe he would try even to charm him, just for the pleasure of adding another name to the _smitten by the French President_ list. His friendship, the kind of relationship where he could entirely be himself, was a rare treasure he reserved for the happy few. But his charm always (or _almost_ ) worked, sometimes for a prolonged time, sometimes for the space of a lunch. Sometimes a minute or a handshake were enough. Knowing perfectly how devastating said charm could be, he used it as a powerful weapon to attract people to his cause. From then, there were two ways; either he relied on his new friends and defended them like a she-wolf would defend her puppies or, if they failed to gain his confidence, he dropped them. Usually they didn't take too well to be left on the cold, out of the warm sphere of his charm. But, strangely enough, not many of them were _really_ angry at him once he turned his back. Maybe this would come later on his presidency. But not now.

(As for Farage, the amount of time he calculated he could profit of his charming conversation would be half an hour, more or less).

“We have survived worse than Farage”, Sibeth said, pointing at one of the _presidential_ omnipresent phones.

She meant Donald Trump, who, unaware of how time zones worked, could call at any moment, raving about tanks, aircrafts and the Republican Guard. Last Summer he had thought initially that the parade on French National Day had been organized on his honor, and bluntly asked Emmanuel, the day before, if he couldn't make it a little shorter. An embarrassed silence had followed, in which none of the people present had known if Mr. Trump was joking or if he really thought a tradition that came back to 1880 was all about it. Finally, and realizing he was serious, Emmanuel had cleared his throat, before spending the next five minutes in a crash History course about Bastille Day (4). It was useless to talk with him about History, of course, judging by how Trump had mixed up Napoleon I and his nephew Napoleon III in a weird interview later.

(Worst part was that one doesn't get rid easily of the President of the United States; willing or not, that fellow was someone he _really_ had to cope with for the next years).

His foot tapped on the floor with impatience as he read another paragraph of the dossier. Inconsciently he was following the rhythm of the music inside his head, the music from the overture of last night opera. From his seat, Sylvain recognized the few bars and said unceremoniously:

“By the way, _where_ did you two met before?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Elena Mendieta.”

The foot stopped. Strasbourg, he said, with a shrug. He had had that conversation with Brigitte last night, back in the palace, once the doors of their private apartment had closed and he was busy tapping Nemo's back. During his time at the ENA and at the karaoke bar he and other students haunted. The place was called Bunnie's, which sounded worse than it really was. A name fit for a brothel, when it was only a karaoke bar. A little trashy, but relatively respectable. She had been there (Strasbourg, not the karaoke bar) studying with a retired mezzosoprano. One they had sang something together, a duet. It ended catastrophically, from an artistic point of view, and apart from laughing at themselves that night the closest they were was when she had accidently stepped on his toe and almost fell to the floor.

“And now, of course, everyone is talking about it”

“Not everyone, only a few hundreds on Twitter and two or three on Wattpad I guess”

“Ah, yes, the ones with the erotic stories” the mischievous light was back on his blue eyes. Months before, just after the legislative elections, even _Le Monde_ had dedicated an article to these infamous stories where he was paired with literally every adult of both sexes that crossed his path (5). With links and all. Links he had not followed because he had more important things to do, even if Trudeau and him had private jokes about these stories. - Well, as you see the reality is more prosaic then

And with that, he closed the blue dossier with all its brexiter pettiness inside and fasted his seat belt. Landing was approaching.

Cheap beer and out of tune singing at an unglamorous karaoke bar between a future president and a future opera star prone to walk on other people's toes, Sylvain said to himself, weren't, indeed, very evocative.

**

  
  


Unlike several opera singers she had met and worked with, Elena Mendieta didn't think _La Forza del Destino_ was cursed. People she knew - people who behaved rationally in other circumstances - performed all kind of rituals to fend off the bad luck. They refused to call the opera by its name, just like these British actors who made a fuss about _The Scottish Play_ . Or they clung to amulets. Or, following the example of what the legendary and gorgeous but superstitious Franco Corelli used to do, held on to their crotch. With that the catastrophes that had surrounded, example given, _Les Comtes d'Hoffmann_ , it was unfair to consider _La Forza_ as being under a curse just because a baritone had died while singing his great scene from Act III.

The radio host, still repressing his laughter after the anecdote about Corelli (6), was clearly enjoying the interview, while the soprano tried to conceal her annoyance. After all, her reference to Offenbach opera was nothing to laugh again. One of the reasons superstitious singers considered it cursed was because of the fires it seemed to _attract_. The Ringstrasse Opera in Vienna with all its loss of lifes, and the fire at the Opéra Comique which caused the loss of one of the opera's manuscripts. But that didn't seem to interest the presenter. The man constantly talked over her, enjoying more his questions that her answers. She wondered if it was due to not taking seriously her profession as an opera singer or if he behaved equally in all his interviews.

“It is actually related to the death of a baritone on scene, back in the 1960s, in New York”, she answered, in her slightly accented French - “Leonard Warren. It is said that he collapsed on the floor and died just after singing the verse _Morir, tremenda cosa_ from Act III, but...”

“What does that phrase mean?” the presenter interrupted.

She looked at him vaguely vexed, as she was always when people didn't understand Italian.

“ _To die, a tremendous thing_. I would rather translate as _a_ _terrible_ thing.”

“What a terrible coincidence!”, her interlocutor exclaimed, widely opening his eyes. She then remembered that their interview was being streamed on Youtube. Radio didn't used to be that way, she said to herself, missing times she had never known. Times when radio carried no images and opera singers featured on cigarette advertisements.

“The case is the story is not true. Or not entirely true. All accounts seem to agree in Warren collapsing just after finishing the _cabaletta_ .” She saw him opening his mouth and, before he could talk again, said lively: “ A _cabaletta_ is a more animated section that follows the aria.”

“What are your thoughts on HD streaming and modern opera productions, Madame Mendieta?”.

Oh dear. Again. Not that she expected to be asked about Verdi’s letters to Ricordi but that kind of question was so commonplace that she felt frustrated. Thank God for acting skills, because she felt, for a moment, the impulse of grabbing his hair and pull until he cried mercy. And she didn’t mean in a pleasant way.

“Complaining about HD streaming could seem ungrateful, given how my career took a boost with one of these. But I don’t think opera can really fit in this. Opera is live theatre and not a movie, and has to be experienced as such. On the other hand, if that can attract a public who otherwise wouldn’t watch an opera performance, then it is a positive thing”. She smiled while pronouncing these last words. “As for modern opera productions, I only care if they are interesting, whether they are modern or not.”

A commonplace answer to a commonplace question. She hoped to avoid that other commonplace question…

“Do you consider yourself as a Diva?”

She almost cried in frustration. And things derailed from that point.

Exactly twenty minutes later, Elena Mendieta, the renowned soprano as the radio had advertised the interview, left the studio with a sigh of relief. Waiting for her in the next room was her manager. A fifty-something - no one was indiscreet enough to ask her about her age - woman with golden curls and an infinite variety of cheap jewellery, fittingly named after an opera character. In her case, Carmen. Although actually she wasn’t named after an opera character, it was only her paternal grandmother’s name. Today she was dressed in green, with brown leather boots and crescent-shaped earrings. A sort of purple poncho completed her attire. The frown was an usual complement.

“That was excruciating”, the manager said, once they were in the elevator, which smell funny “No one listens to the radio at this hour. Your fans or your detractors will listen later, and we know how these two groups think about you. But you know that’s not the real problem, don’t you?”.

She made a pause, in case Elena wanted to add something. But she clearly didn’t so she went on with her rant:

“You know you can’t say things like _Yes we singers are essential to opera but canaries also are essential to singing contests and no one think they should organize them_ just to show how much importance you give to conducting and how much you think of opera as a team work and how little of a diva you are, Elena. That’s precisely what divas would say. Don’t give me that look, you know you are going to annoy a few folks with that little phrase. You know they will take it out of context and I will be forced to fix it. Again. Like that one about _tenors being like vultures, not entirely pleasant but necessary for the environment_ ”.

“It’s not my fault he made so many stupid questions. Including that last one.”, the soprano said at last as the elevator’s door opened and they walked onto the hall and then the street. It was cold and humidity seemed to attack her physically. 

“Of course is not, nothing good can be expected from a man who doesn’t know the difference between Bellini and Donizetti, but it is _your_ fault if you failed to keep your cold blood. And then you blush like a teenager with the last question about _your Strasbourg fling_ ”. She was playful now. Exasperated, but playful. Whereas Elena was simply exasperated.

It was astonishing how _your Strasbourg fling_ had become for the last months the codename between them for the president of the French Republic. Carmen always joked about these few nights at the shitty karaoke bar the singer had told her. 

“You know it wasn’t a fling and that the farthest I went with him was when I stepped on his toes and almost fell.” 

“And his powerful arm saved you from falling face-forward on a non very clean floor and you still remember how he smells even if you never exchanged more than ten sentences with him and then you left the city because your course had ended. I know the story. The problem is now all your interviews on French media are going to ask about the same thing and forget the rest. We have learnt to shrug at our politicians, but here everything the President does is scrutinized to exhaustion and they won’t care about anything else. They won’t care about you or your singing, or opera. Only that you once were in the same room with Macron”.

Their taxi arrived. They tacitly decided the conversation about _the Strasbourg fling_ could not go on for the moment. Instead, Carmen talked her about their future projects. Their because they were a team. She had been her manager for ever, and Elena had decided to stay with her even if she wasn’t the best one around, but she was reluctant to separate from her. Just like she had never changed her Internet provider. There was a _Lucia_ next month in Madrid, and another _Traviata_ in Chicago. And the _Norma_ in concert form in Brussels.

“It is frustrating there’s no staging, but knowing the management’s preferences in scene directors I would be forced to sing it with stiletto shoes while jumping back and forth. And you know I can do everything I am asked save singing _Norma_ with stiletto shoes.”

“Are you quoting Birgit Nilsson now?”

“Paraphrasing. But you know perfectly she was right (7).”

And that was their last exchange until they arrived to the hotel. Carmen went to her room to talk to the Community Manager. Elena had hired one after a series of Tweets written personally had turned horribly wrong. As for her, she had a rehearsal that afernoon, and one of her costumes, the military jacket she wore in second scene of act II, when the heroine Leonora, dressed as a man, is hiding from her brother, needed refitting. Elena decided she would take a shower and rest a little before going to the opera house again. She would probably met annoyed faces there if they had listened to the interview. Or maybe not. After all, today was the dress rehearsal of the second cast. With a public of “youngsters” and critics. People would have other worries than gossiping about her interview, her unfortunate phrase about canaries or how unfortunate was that the presenter had mixed up Donizetti’s _Anna Bolena_ and Bellini’s _Beatrice di Tenda_ just because someone gave him the wrong names of the musical pieces that had accompanied the interview.

Things seemed better when she got out from the warm shower. Wrapped in the bathrobe embroidered with the hotel’s coat of arms, she took a look at her mobile phone and sighed with contentment. Still a few hours of rest. Laying on the sofa, she reached for the telecommand, switching the TV on. An interminable series of political debates about the interpretation of an out of context phrase the president had said in Brussels paraded before her eyes. She switched off the TV, closing her eyes. She fell asleep and had an unpleasant dream about being lynched on Twitter again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> Well, it's not a very long chapter and as I said I don't know what will happen with all this. I can't garantize this is going to be updated regularly, but I will try.
> 
> (1) - Palcoscenico does not exist (or so I hope). Forum Opera, on the other hand, is a real site and yes, Sylvain Fort writes there. In fact I knew about him way before I knew about Macron.  
>  (2)- Real story, during his obligatory foreing posting while studying at the ENA he had to visit a morgue after a plane crash in Nigeria with the French ambassador, looking for two deceased compatriots.  
>  (3)- Which does exist and is not very tender.  
>  (4)- Believe it or not, the story seems to be true.  
>  (5)- Which really happened as everyone knows.  
>  (6)- This is what legend says about Corelli, yes.  
>  (7)- "All you need to sing it, is a comfortable pair of shoes"
> 
> With this, until next chapter!


	2. Notte e giorno faticar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of rehearsals, strikes and quietly rejoicing in your rival team's loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I write something like this AND decide to share it with the world, just because I can't sleep and I am already in Hell. English is not my first language so you will probably find typos and gramatical mistakes in the text. I apologize for all these. Of course some of the characters are real and living people but the story is fictional and in a great deal they have little to do with their real counterparts. Even if I like to add "accurate" stuff about them, see notes. I don't really know where this will go since it's mostly improvised. With that, enjoy if you can, read and post your comments, critics and suggestions if you want to. IF you feel lost with that the opera references, then I left some notes at the end of the chapter!
> 
> As you may imagine, all the singers and conductors that are a part of this chapter and appear interacting directly with Elena Mendieta, the completely fictional soprano, are completely fictional too even if they often quote or make reference to very real personalities of the universe of Classical music... Except "special guest offstage" Plácido Domingo of course.

**II**

**Notte e giorno faticar**

_Notte e giorno faticar_

_per chi nulla sa gradir;_

_piova e vento sopportar,_

_mangiar male e mal dormir!_

_(_ Night and day I work hard

for one who does not appreciate it.

I put up with wind and rain,

eat and sleep badly.)

_Notte e giorno faticar_ W.A. Mozart, _Don Giovanni_. 

A cigarette in her lips, a song in her playlist – an old Spanish song that spoke of men who never fulfilled their promises, of alcohol and bitterness – and whisky in her glass, Carmen was resting too, after speaking to Elena's community manager. He was a young man with a strong Galician accent and already more hair in his beard than in his head. Jesús, a.k.a. Chus, a.k.a. Chus!2049 in certain webs she had only heard about vaguely. All his agility typing – he had learnt to type extremely fast in order to be a civil servant, never succeeding – was often necessary every time their common _protegée_ behaved in a blunt way. That bluntness had been present from their first meeting and often put her in trouble. But they were devoted to her cause.

Nevertheless, there was another pressing matter. The strike announcement. Chus was not only doing damage control over the interview, but also spying Facebook groups of the Opéra's orchestra members to know the last about the impending strike.

“Only a miracle could save the next performances, I think”, he said. Apart from frequenting the aforementioned websites, Chus was a fan of modern royals. This, combined with his loyalty to Elena and her career made him look at strikes which could disturb her as a crime of _lèse-majesté._ “The orchestra members are very determined. You should see the comments people who already had tickets are writing”.

Even if the premiére had been saved in the last moment, the orchestra and chorus still were announcing a strike for the next performances. What people with tickets didn't know was that some members of the cast would show solidarity and join the strike too.

“Well, it's their right”, Carmen replied. It wasn't clear to Chus if she was talking about the orchestra members or about the people complaining. Few moments later he left, his MacBook under his arm, and she decided she deserved a moment of respite. A strike was not a novelty for them, and Elena's career wouldn't suffer that much. But still, it could meant a loss of time and a bunch of singers without much to do apart from rehearsing again and roaming aimlessly through Paris. At least it was an entertaining city.

Ah, yes, Elena's career. Her very own masterpiece. She had discovered Elena by pure chance, while attending to an amateur performance of _La Traviata_ organized by a cultural association in a popular neighbourhood of Madrid. The very young Violetta impressed her enough. Mainly, because in spite of her innate talent she was singing in a extremely inadequate way that would ruin her voice in a year or two. Carmen Barros, unemployed artists manager, made the silent vow of killing a singing teacher, if that girl had one. And from the moment in which the curtain fell she had decided to take her under her wing.

Which she did immediately, causing the effect of a bombshell when, back from stage and surrounded by her family, Elena was busy receiving compliments. She didn't take Carmen words well. First, because she didn't know her. Second, because the manager said she should immediately close her mouth and _learn_ to sing. Elena had blushed, still with the flower bouquet a girl had brought during the curtain call. A cheap, tasteless thing badly arranged and paid by the cultural association, but she held it like it was exquisite. Probably were the first flowers she had received. Her hazel eyes flashed and her nails sunk into the green stems. Carmen discovered later what meaning that warning flash had. Elena's parents and siblings looked at that unknown woman with a mixture of surprise and dismay. For them, Elena was something prodigious and uncomparable and her singing had no flaws at all.

“Listen, Nature has endowed you with talent and with a wonderful voice, unfortunately it didn't gave you an idea of what to do with them. But you will loss both if you continue singing that way. You should learn to breath and to place your voice. This – said scribbling something on a piece of paper she took off her handbag – is my phone. You can call me later. I can help you.”

When she left the tiny room Elena was still furious. She overheard her talking heatly when she was already in the hallway. But she was sure the girl would call.

Nevertheless, she had to learn a first lesson about Elena, and that was her stubbornness. She didn't call immediately but exactly two weeks later, when her confidence in her ability to attract that young talent under her protective wings already started to fade. Carmen discovered later that a lot of the delay had been due to familiar budget. Elena's family wasn't exactly rich and she had already worked hard to earn money enough to pay a singing teacher. Now she had discovered that she had wasted her time and her money and that her lack of a solid technique would ultimately doom her. After these two weeks of hesitation, Elena called, arranging an interview.

They arrived to an economical agreement. Only later discovered Elena that Carmen had been unemployed and that she could have hired her for less money. But by then Carmen's feeling for her discovery had evolved to something between maternal and friendly. The soprano, and that was one of her qualities, could not held a grudge for much time.

She had spent the next six months making tabula rasa of what little she had learnt about signing technique, repeating constantly the same fragments in order to improve her high notes. She had to learn Italian and French. She cried in frustration more than once, harnessed her impatience and finally she was given the permission, so to speak, to sing again. But no longer in a venue hired by neighbours, even if some of these neighbours did came to see her in her debut, but in real opera festivals. Provincial opera festivals, it was true. But now she had a real career as an opera singer. And from provincial to provincial opera house, concert or festival she spent her first years as as professional singer. When there was the occasion, Carmen sent her to masterclasses or courses to improve her technique even more.

The crucial moment was when calls from abroad started to arrive. Artistic directors that had seen one of her performances, or listened to bootleg recordings. The first time Elena crossed the frontier because the opera house of a little Italian town wanted her for their production of Donizetti's _Anna Bolena_ she had the impression, as she told Carmen, to step in a new planet, completely virgin and waiting for her to put a flag. It was a pretentious way to describe her excitation, but Carmen agreed. The performance was a success and Elena had her share of the local, provincial press, with her photo in one of the interior pages.

Step by step they – for Carmen thought about them as a binomy - climbed their way to the front page. Her chance arrived when Irina Ardeleanu cancelled her _Traviata_ at la Scala. Historically, it had been complicated to sing Traviata at Milan's opera house, and historically meant decades after Maria Callas had sung an unforgettable Violetta in 1955, under the baton of Carlo Maria Giulini and the direction of Luchino Visconti. The number of people who said to have attended at least at one of these performances increased years later, when they became legendary. When in 1964 la Scala tried to stage a new production of _La Traviata_ , this time directed by Zeffirelli and under the baton of Herbert Von Karajan, the audience almost rioted. Mirella Freni, whom the Austrian maestro had picked as his Violetta, had to leave the opera house escorted by the police after the performance (1). _La Traviata_ became a sort of taboo at La Scala until 1990, when Riccardo Muti defied the _widowers_ . But in spite of the return of Verdi's masterwork to the opera house's repertoire, singing that role in Milan was _still_ complicate.

She was up to the task. Elena even impressed the audiences worldwide thanks to the HD broadcast. The critics, too, were mostly impressed, but not unanimous.

From that moment she would appear on the cover of opera magazines, recorded her first recital and had the shock of her life when Plácido Domingo, nothing less, had received in the Duchess of Whats-her-Face party singing _Madrileña bonita_ (2). And the rest, as usually said, was history.

Carmen raised her glass in direction to the counter, in a silent toast. There was a framed photo on the counter, a photo she carried everywhere she went, and now she was looking at it directly. It was her late husband's, a man with an uncertain smile and a heart of gold that had been too unfortunate.

“We made it”, she said quietly. And once again she wished he was still alive. If only he could have tasted freedom. She drank the rest of her whisky. Now the song, another copla, had changed and was about undertakers and their daughters. Carmen wondered in what moment she had created such a depressing playlist.

***

In one of the rehearsal rooms later that afternoon, Elena repeated over and over again her duet with the bass. Since the Maestro was busy with the second cast in the auditorium, and a delegation of the orchestra was up there negotiating with the director's board, it was his assistant who accompanied them at the piano. Said assistant, a young woman with unruly red hair, had told them the maestro wasn't satisfied about their performance of the duet last night.

“What a surprise”, the bass said under his breath. Maestro Patrice Rinaldi was rarely satisfied with everything. If not the singer's pronunciation, he would attack their movements on stage, or would remind them they should look at him and wait for his indications. He was equally exigent with the orchestra, even if he rarely was angry. Cold or bordering on rude, yes. Insulting, never, if one measured conductor's anger by the recordings of Toscanini (3).

“The problem”, said the assistant, “ is that here you are telling Leonora she must have faith in the cross and you sounded like you wanted to push her to the eternal flames of Hell directly - “And here”, she continued, that time addressing to Elena “is marked _misteriosamente et sottovoce_ and you sounded like my canary when he asks for lettuce. Neither mysterious not subtle”.

And she pushed her glasses up because they were about to fall from her nose. So she had listened to the interview and was decided to make her pay. Elena had noticed several members of the cast were annoyed at her that afternoon. With the notable exception of the mezzo, Olga Novikova, who was incapable of treating or even thinking badly of human or animal beings. But Olga and her kind spirit were at the auditorium watching the dress rehearsal of the second cast.

“From the beginning”, the assistant said.

So they started again, from the moment the comic relief Melitone left the scene to the end of the duet, when the heroine decides to hide from the world in a Franciscan convent because her lover had accidentally killed her father and her brother wanted her dead, and this not accidentally. It was complicated and one had to blame the Duke of Rivas, author of the original play (4). Elena had read it at the school, unaware of the place that nonsensical work for the scene would have in her life later.

An hour later the assistant was satisfied enough to leave them go. Carmen appeared of nowhere with a towel to dry off the sweat from her brow. At her side, Chus smiled and said:

“Imagine who is attending the dress rehearsal today. I've seen them on Olga's Insta”.

“Who?”

“Anna Galimberti and Francesca Girardi”, he murmured reverently, and handed her his Ipad. There were the two opera legends, two venerable ladies smiling at Olga's side. Both had been relevant (and rival) Leonoras in their time, and were friends with Maestro Rinaldi. She opened her eyes with a bewildered look; it was like an UFO piloted by a green dog had just landed in the backyard she never had. When she raised her eyes Chus was looking at her tilting his head like a cat that just brought a mouse would do. At least he seemed satisfied.

“They are still on act II”, Carmen said. And shrugging, she added “ Half of the orchestra members are with their minds on the streak, Rinaldi is losing his calm and the poor soprano is frightened. Signora Girardi was talking to her; even the maestro was helpful, but she seems ready to run all the way back to Oleksandriia”.

Elena didn't knew exactly if Carmen really felt sorry for the other soprano or if that was just mocking a potential rival for her. She decided it was the latter.

When she entered the vaste auditorium, on tip of her toes so she didn't disturb, Mesdames Galimberti and Girardi were still sitting on row 15, the VIP row. There was no royal, or rather presidential loge at Bastille, where all the audience was supposed to have the same visibility. Even so, the opera house had a “presidential” seat on said row. _He_ had been there last night, she remembered looking at _his_ seat, which was empty. Olga waved at her and smiled. Then she got up and, taking her hand, lead her to the two ladies. She introduced her to the two mythical creatures whose recordings from decades ago she had listened.

“I was here last night. You were wonderful”, Galimberti said. And when Girardi patted her like she was a relative and kissed her cheek, Elena felt her legs were like those of a ragdoll and just collapsed in the nearest seat. Not _his_ seat. She mumbled something incoherent about being overwhelmed and undeserving of such praise, still with starry eyes, while Chus filmed the scene to put it in Elena's social media.

“Darling, don't be modest, you don't need to”, Girardi said “It's an useless trait for a soprano”.

“And for good mezzos too!”, Galimberti completed, tapping Olga's hand.

Olga giggled, her dark eyes shining. The conversation was taking place in Italian, a sort of _lingua franca_ when they didn't use English. The two casts, or rather all people involved in the production were a weird melt pot of different nationalities. People from Mexico, Italy, Russia, Ukraine, the US or Spain all together under the baton of a French conductor. And all had quarrels at some moment (with the exception of Olga who never quarreled at all) Almost seemed like that scene from _Meeting Venus_. Only that the conductor would not sleep with the soprano. He was not only married but very much in love with his husband.

“How do you see the second cast?” Elena asked, very much agreeing on getting rid of humility.

“Shall we start now?”, a voice came from the pit. Maestro Rinaldi wasn't actually addressing to the people sitting in the row 15, or to the critics in the balconies, or to the young students scathered at different places. It was more addressed at his orchestra.

“Maestro, we are waiting for our comrades”, answered one of the violinists. He talked like a cartoonish character on a movie about the Soviet Union, only that he was from Paris and always provoked some insulting commentary from some of the singers who had been born on the other side of the Iron Curtain.

“We can wait for them while we do something with this scene”, Rinaldi snapped, turning the pages of the score. The violinist frowned but didn't say anything. Second act, second scene. The theme of destiny played, and the leading lady entered the scene, running, for she was flying someone. Maria Razinkova, the other Leonora di Vargas, had two things Elena envied. The first was her height; the second, her huge voice. It was capable of filling the auditorium effortlessly and when she opened her mouth the Spanish soprano felt like a very modest rowboat in front of an ocean liner. Elena surely did know how to project her voice so it could surpass the orchestra pit and be clearly heard. But Razinkova's voice was naturally a roar.

Except that she appeared to be so tense that she looked at the conductor like a hare would look at the lights of a car approaching. Mesmerized but immobile and above all, incapable of reaction. Finally her lips opened but she failed to control her voice totally. It went out like a scream, the entire aria”.

“The poor girl”, Galimberti said. “If she sings like that tonight the public will eat her alive”

“Well I don't think so, dear Anna”, Girardi replied “After all, this is Paris, not Milan or Naples. They don't get that passionate about opera. Remember how they booed you at the San Carlo, the night you were so ill? Wasn't that unfair...”

“Of course I do, _mia cara_. I've sung this opera so many times that I guess I got to be booed once. How many Leonoras did you sing?”

“As you know, I stopped singing the role before I could be booed”.

Before what started to look like a verbal catfight between two adorable old ladies could went on, a rain of leaflets fell on the little group. A cry came from one of the balconies:

“Strike! We are on strike!”

Several orchestra members answered to their call. The violinist who had addressed Maestro Rinaldi got up and left the pit, followed by the rest of the orchestra. Some of them apologized to the conductor, but the majority didn't look at the podium. Rinaldi was standing with one hand on his face as if he was meditating on the cruelty of this world.

“Well, I think we no longer need to worry about Maria's high notes. For a while”, Galimberti said.

***

Because he wasn't the kind of man who only drinks Diet Coke, he asked for a Martini at the hotel bar and he rejoined the table with the other leaders. This was a ritual after the first day of the EUCO, that if things were wrapped early. They would go to the hotel and talk more informally of whatever they had discussed over the dinner at the negotiation table, or even enjoy fries at _Le Roy d'Espagne_ if weather allowed it (Brussels had what looked like five minutes of sun every year). If not, they would spend a night without sleeping while the journalists paced the press room or used their handbags as an improvised pillow. He had known some of these before being elected, first as one of Hollande’s secretaries and later as a Minister. More would come.

He took a seat next to Angela, who in that moment was holding a glass of beer on her right hand and joking about dress code. This came just after Bettel's perfect imitation of Viktor Orbán. He looked briefly at one of his Iphones, the _non-professional_ one. A friend had send him the cover of the new issue of Closer, with _that_ photo after the opera, on the loge. _Don’t look at the comments,_ his friend had written. His thumb softly brushed the screen, just before leaving the two phones on the table, at his hand's reach.

“Don't you find amusing that I am frequently asked about always wearing a pantsuit and none of you is asked about your clothes? You are permanently dressed in black or navy blue with black ties”.

“You are right, even if Emmanuel is wearing grey tonight”, Bettel replied.

“And new shoes because Nemo ate the pair I was supposed to use”, the French President replied. The dog was a free soul, evidently, and sometimes looked like _he_ had adopted Emmanuel instead of being the opposite. The president didn’t make things better spoiling the animal in all the possible ways. Indeed, everyone spoiled the animal, who received gifts daily, from all the corners of France and beyond. From toys to recordings of lullabies for dogs.

“I hope you are keeping that demon out of view next week”, Merkel mumbled, before taking another sip. She was visiting Paris. Everyone remembered how she had felt when Putin brought his black dog with him to a meeting with the German Chancellor. “Unless you want to take it with you at that concert with Barenboim we are supposed to attend”.

“The _demon_ is staying away in his room with all his toys of course”. 

“Speaking of staying in one's room, did Mariano go back to his (5)?”. Charles Michel was looking awkwardly to the stairs. “I hope he realized I didn't want to interfere in Spain's internal affairs”.

“Apparently he is. Real Madrid is playing tonight against PSG. I bet he's smoking a cigar while watching the match”. It was refreshing to hear Gentiloni talking about other things than these idiot Salvini, the Lega, Cinque Stelle and how worried he felt about the legislative elections.

As for the match, Emmanuel knew it wasn't very patriotic coming from a French President but even if Spanish teams had been recently the bane of his existence, he was internally expecting PSG to fall eliminated, as any decent fan of the Olympique de Marseille would do.

“Do you all believe she will get away with this?”, Michel said, rolling his eyes.

_She_ was Theresa May, and _this_ was her Brexit plan again. EU leaders had their differences, quarreled in a more or less polite way and often disagreed. But they had something in common, all of them. They were starting to loss their patience with the United Kingdom never leaving at all. Like the proverbial dog in the manger, they prevented the member States to center in other important things because they no longer wanted to be a member.

“I don't think so. Her own party wants her head and they'll had it sooner or later. At this stage the sooner they leave the better”, Emmanuel said. An uncomfortable silence followed. _If only that can save me of another conversation with Farage_ , he added for himself. He had later made a comment about his very good English and about the French President being the UE’s last hope. Which probably was the brexiter equivalent of being Satan. He was perfectly fine with being Satan then.

“I think likely that May will be defied by the Parliament and her party, and meanwhile the deadline will approach and they will ask for a new extension.” Angela had stopped drinking her beer and had put her hands on the table, in that triangle shape of hers. “Maybe when May is out, new elections will be held”.

There was a sudden burst of claxons and yells at the street. Limited but noisy enough.

“What’s all that about?”

“They are screaming _goal_ ”

One of the waiters, a young lad who had seen enough EU leaders (and not only, when there were NATO summits) to feel really impressed or respectuous, practically yelled at them:

“BEN-ZE-MA!! They just kicked Paris out”

Somewhat Emmanuel managed to adopt a sad expression about the French team being the one eliminated, while in his mind he felt that kind of joy football fans feel when the clubs they dislike are humiliated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still improvising mostly of this even if the rest of the fanfic is "taking form". So here are the notes!
> 
> 1 - The failed attempt to bring back Traviata to la Scala took place in 1964.  
> 2 - Literally Pretty girl from Madrid. This is from a zarzuela (Spanish operetta) called La del Manojo de Rosas.  
> 3 - If you want to know how an angry conductor sounds, you only had to listen Toscanini's rehearsals.  
> 4 - Don Álvaro o la Fuerza del Sino, by Ángel de Saavedra, Duke of Rivas  
> 5 - This chapter, like the previous one, is suppossed to take place in Autumn 2017 so Rajoy and Gentiloni are still there.
> 
> ... And until the next one, with a bit more of action I hope.


	3. Ignoble to complain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroine walks too much, even if with comfortable shoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'd remember you all that this is the first time I post something of this kind, God have mercy. English is not my first language, so expect several mistakes even if I try to correct them before posting.

**III**

**_Ignoble to complain_ **

And yet, of course, I rather like to revel, ah ha!

I have no strong objection to champagne, ah ha!

My wardrobe is expensive as the devil, ah ha!

Perhaps it is ignoble to complain!

_Glitter and be gay_ . BERNSTEIN, _Candide_.

  
  
  
  


“ _Mesdames et Messieurs, bonjour_. It's been 48 hours since the Opéra orchestra and chorus declared they were on strike and we have three members of the cast to discuss about it today.”

The Tv studio was bright blue and the giant table white, with a triangular shape. Indeed, it was a big table for such a small set but audience at home wouldn't notice. Elena, Olga and the Mexican tenor Leopoldo Aguirre – a dashing figure, tall and with flashing green eyes – were sitting opposite other three individuals: a journalist, an opera critic from _Le Figaro_ and a member of the orchestra's labor union. The host was sitting in what would be considered like the triangle's apex. The cameras were very near and behind them, among the crew, she could spot Chus frantically typing on his Ipad, next to Olga's own community manager and Aguirre's overreaching wife.

“As you may know, the Opéra de Paris announced a strike two days ago, in protest for the director's board last decisions about the number of performances without a salary increase. That circumstance has caused the next performances of Verdi's _La Forza del Destino_ to be cancelled, and is still not known if the ones from next week will be respected. As members of the cast, what does mean this to you?”

The question was global, but it was the tenor who stepped in before.

“It is a great inconvenience, of course. Do you know we have been rehearsing here for the last month?. That is an important amount of work and time we'll never have back. And then there's the public, who has nothing to do with the musician's economical problems”

While Aguirre talked, the screen showed several Tweets and Facebook posts of angry spectators who had wanted to enjoy a night at the opera and now were furious.

“And what kind of respect we would show to the public if we can't work in decent conditions?”, the syndicalist snapped. “ The management is proposing the spectators to change tickets or to accept a refund. In fact, several members of the cast showed us their solidarity by holding a banner in front of the opera house this morning”.

It was a kind of reproach, since none of the singers present had participated in the protest.

“I think the problem is that we have had governments which speak beautiful and lofty words about culture but keep making financial cuts, or not giving attention enough to the cultural world”, the journalist said.

“The Opéra has spend millions in productions and stagings that then go straight to the warehouses”, the critic intervened. “And honestly, having seem a quite of them, one wonders if wouldn't be better to perform always in concert form”.

He was one of these conservative individuals who frowned when the staging deviated a millimeter from tradition.

“But opera is also theatre, Monsieur!”, said Olga, softly but in a very firm way. “I am sure the musicians of the orchestra aren't exactly happy with this situation either”.

“Madame Novikova is right. We aren't happy with going on strike, but sometimes one has to”, the syndicalist said.

All this happened in the first minutes with all of them speaking over the others. The host swallowed before asking to the only individual present who had, until then, remained silent.

“And what's your opinion on this matter, Madame Mendieta?”

“I don't deny their right to go on strike, of course! But you have to understand the public's reactions too. It's easy to say: you can ask for a refund, when often they come from outside the city and have planned the trip for months and can't stay forever waiting for the performances to resume. Some of them have been saving money during the year”.

“Because you don't think opera is an elitist past time, of course”, the host replied. Suddenly the three singers, the critic and the syndicalist formed a common front against her telling why opera was an universal treasure, and not elitist at all, and how tickets were often cheaper than those of football. The journalist remained neutral, vaguely amused. Until he wasn't neutral anymore.

“But you are an _elite_!”, he said finally, an unctuous smile over his little beard, addressing to the singers. “You are treated like an exquisite kind of human being, revered, like you knew little of the real struggles of the world. You spend your time among your own class. I understand you can defend it, but not that you say opera is not elitist. Example given, it seems, Madame, that you have _friends_ in high places. At least the highest you can aim in France. These things, of course, give you a sort of advantage over the common folk, so why do you complain?. What do you know of factory workers, or cashiers, or taxi drivers for example?”.

As he smiled again, the cover for _Closer_ appeared on the screen. There was the infamous photo, on one corner. _A RIVAL FOR BRIGITTE? LEARN ABOUT THE PRESIDENT'S FAMOUS FRIEND_ could be read in yellow letters. The rest of the cover was dedicated to someone who had won the French edition of Big Brother or something like that. She discovered later than the article inside the magazine included little more than that, other than what already was known. But it unchained another vague of tasteless comments on social media.

Elena felt her wrath mounting. Carmen had been right. She had been invited not because her opinion on the strike, or opera, or Verdi's music, mattered for them. She had been invited because she had been in the same room than the president of the French Republic, looking definitely thirsty, and because they were supposed to share a intimate relationship that never happened. The syndicalist looked at the soprano in a way that told her their brief alliance was broken. She felt, thought, Olga's hand in her shoulder. She was on the verge of walking out, effect Streisand be damned.

“Monsieur, may I ask you a question?”. It was Olga who politely broke the tense silence.

He blinked, not answering. He had expected an angry reaction from the soprano, and he had been right. Only that Olga had decided to intervene.

“How many food trucks have you unloaded?”

“Excuse me?”. He seemed sincere in his surprise.

“My father, for example, was a factory worker. The first time I traveled out of Russia - the Soviet Union had just fallen and I was 18- I snapped photos with my camera at the butchers shop to send them to my mother. We had never seen such abundance before”.

“ _But I did work hard to pay my classes. At the supermarket, unloading food trucks, or spending the entire day on my feet, because cashiers didn't have chairs on our store, except if they were pregnant. All this while studying. I wish I had back all these lemon and dog food pallets to throw them at you”_ , Elena said for herself. But she decided to remain silent.

As Chus told her later, that didn't give a good impression.

***

“I don't blame him”, said Olga later that day over the coffee. They were at the hotel's cafeteria. Rehearsals were definitely out of question, at least inside the opera house and during the strike. For a while, Maestro Rinaldi had tried to go on with them, but it had been useless. “He just repeated what people think about opera, in a great mesure”.

“But he's a journalist”, Elena replied “He should do his research. You know there are people like that in our profession, but not us. Nothing of we have has been served on a silver plate.”

And even when things were handed on a silver plate, without talent or hard work there was no opera star, no glory, no flowers bouquets threw from the balconies. It wasn't entirely clear if she felt sorry for herself, for the vision the guy had of opera or for journalism. But Olga always found excuses or redeeming qualities for every single human being. She was that kind of person.

“Actually, and speaking of a totally different matter, I wanted to tell you something. Personally, before you know it by others." There was no dramatic pause "I am retiring. For a while, I mean”.

“Oh?”

Had she lost her voice? Evidently that wasn't the problem. Was she ill, a terrible illness she hadn't confessed? Was she pregnant? But no, Olga had no known boyfriend (or girlfriend for that matter). She just didn't care about sexual intercourse neither wanted to have children and was perfectly happy that way. Looking at the coffee cup adorned with stylized figures of swallows, the mezzo whispered:

“My father... Alzheimer. Runs in the family... I'm going to take care of him until... Well, you know. We'll take care of him, my mother and I”.

Elena raised her eyes, dubious of what she should say now.

“Oh”.

“Yes, I know what you are thinking. I have my life settled, we have money now, maybe I could afford someone that could take care of him. Oh, don't deny it. It's probably what I'd say too. But it's my father and I _want_ to do it. Otherwise, I could not forgive myself. He was a good father, Elena. He deserves it”.

She said this like it was the most natural thing in the world and probably it was. Elena struggled again with her social skills that seemed to have deserted her these days. Finally she managed to say:

“We are going to miss you, Olga”. _We_ as in the great family of opera performances worldwide.

The Russian mezzo smiled widely, and it was like the cloud in her eyes had vanished.

“And to think the first time I heard about you was because you were attacking me on Twitter”, Olga exclaimed.

Yes, that was the Very Unfortunate Series of Twitter that had forced Carmen to hire a community manager. Since Olga was universally loved, the hostility Elena had shown (in her defence, she had maybe drunk two glasses more than she should) had caused a few hundreds of opera aficionados going after her. Olga's posterior attitude had cut short the rumors about rivalry, and they had become friends.

“You know, if no one stops me I can do a lot of silly things when I am drunk”.

“Like what?”.

Elena smiled, shrugged.

“Nothing irreparable. Fortunately”.

***

She decided she would go for a walk after that. Alone. Almost always accompanied by Carmen or Chus, she enjoyed now and then to breathe some fresh air on her own. Fortunately it was Autumn, that the day was damp and that, at seven o'clock, it was already dark. That allowed her to wear a knitted cap, raise up the neck of her trench coat and try to be discreet. Of course she was not _that_ famous (no opera singer was, except for the dead ones or Anna Netrebko) to have legions of fans following her around. Enough to be asked an autographer by occasional admirers outside the Opera House. Nothing more, nothing less.

However, there was that _Closer_ cover and the looks some of the people they had crossed on their way from the TV station had given to her. The hotel was near the Champs Elysées and, curiously enough, the Presidential Palace. To say she had given a thought to the latter would be insincere. In fact, she had thought about that a lot. It wasn't her fault, though. The hotel wasn't _her_ choice.

That day rain had fallen, and the pavement was still wet and slippery. Even if her shoes were comfortable enough, she regretted not having her rubber boots. In Spain, they were called _katiuskas_ . It was curious how that name had relation with operetta: the zarzuela _Katiuska_ . A tuneful work for stage with Russian princesses falling in love with Soviet commissaries. Olga had found it hilarious, especially because she had a namesake among the characters. On the first performances, the singer had appeared with knee high boots and people just started to call them _katiuskas_ . Just like they had started to call _rebecas_ to cardigans after Hitchcock's movie premiered in Spain; that _cardigan_ came from that Balaclava guy seemed even more hilarious to her (1).

Next to the Rond-Point, she crossed the _most beautiful avenue in the world_ , as certain people called les Champs Elysées. Not her; it seemed tacky and dithyrambic. Not that they weren't beautiful, or that she thought other avenues in other cities deserved that title more; she just didn't think there was an international championship of the sort. Besides, in normal circumstances, she wouldn't have the time to go for a walk. Someone, not Carmen or Chus (she had designated them different ringing tones, _Pomp & Circumstance _ for him and the overture for Mozart's _Schauspieldirektor_ for her) was calling her. It was a strange life, she said to herself as she ignored her phone. She traveled constantly. But she knew little more of the cities where she sang than when she read travel guides back in her childhood, learning a lot of trivia about the cities she wanted to visit. Opera rarely left her the time to know them.

When she started to cross the gardens, and once she had arrived next to the theatre Marigny she felt like a stalker. Yes, at the other side, behind barriers, more gardens and a gate crowned by a golden cockerel, was the presidential palace. _I am losing my mind_ , she thought. Elena decided she should put an end to her lunacy, not approach more, go back to her hotel and call her parents home. What a strange word, home.

As she entered the Avenue de Marigny, she tripped over something. Stopped in her fall by a passer-by she hadn't seen, she clung to his arm like she was drowning. The mixed smell of leather – for he was wearing a leather jacket – and Eau Sauvage flooded her nostrils and while she recovered her verticality she decided how she could address him. Monsieur le Président was too formal and probably would attract more people who, like her, hadn't even noticed. Manu, too informal, and in spite of what happened in the past, she had never called him that way. So when she looked at him, she only said:

“It's you”.

“I know. Shall we go for a walk before they find me?”

The sanity of her mind, her hotel or her dignity could wait after all.

(On the other side of the gardens, behind the gates, a very astonished and slightly panicked Republican guard was telling his superior that the President of the French Republic had simply passed by his side, smiled at him and, just like that, slipped out of the palace through one of the gates. And that he, who was supposed to protect him, had left him go).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not many references today. I've struggled with the TV show. Probably Elena has walked too much, and maybe in an unrealistic way.
> 
> 1- Katiuska by Pablo Sorozábal was premiered in Barcelona in 1931.
> 
> And again, feel free to comment if you want to. Until next chapter!


	4. A moi les rêves de l'ivresse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we go back in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, first thing is to say... English is not my first language. You'll find probably a mispelling here and there, and correctors are no infalibles. I will also remind this is my first fic. Part of me is sorry about sharing this with the world, part of me is saying go on with your delirium, girl. So it's going to be the second.

**_**IV** _ **

****

**__**A moi les rêves de l'ivresse** _ _ **

O vin, dissipe la tristesse  
Qui pèse sur mon coeur!  
A moi les rêves de l'ivresse  
Et le rire moqueur!  
O liqueur  
Enchanteresse,  
Verse l'ivresse  
Et l'oubli dans mon coeur!

(O wine, dispel the sadness  
Which weighs on my heart!  
To me dreams of drunkenness  
And the mocking laughter!  
O liquor  
enchantress,  
Pour the drunkenness  
And forgetfulness in my heart!)

Ambroise Thomas, HAMLET, O vin, dissipe la tristesse.

2003

On Thursdays, they played football. He was left back, not exactly brilliant from a technical point of view, but pugnacious. If he had to play dirty, he would do so. Swearing a lot in the process. One wouldn't have said it, given his archangelic countenance, but even Lucifer had been once an angel. He enjoyed these matches. They were the prelude of the weekend, when he would wait until he was done with his Spanish class to run to the train station (1), back to Amiens and Brigitte. He spent his life between Strasbourg, Amiens and Le Touquet, not caring anymore about the way people looked at them.

The first times, those had been hard, with her family barely talking at her, or the anonymous messages and calls from the good bourgeois of Amiens. The ones that considered themselves as the cream of the city's society because they had always been like that for generations. It was the Trogneux's case. The Macrons were a different class of bourgeois. The kind of people who has ascended through generations. His parents were doctors, but his great grandparents were a railworker and a former servant who barely could read.

They had suffered, Brigitte and him, but they had survived and simply didn't care that much, anymore. Now that he was a future Énarque who will be part of French élite the views Brigitte's family had on him had changed. Now that he was a young adult, sure of himself, his family had accepted the evidence: she was there to stay, for decades at least. For life, maybe. He was persistent enough. In finding a life of his own, in refusing to follow the familiar tradition of being a doctor. Of course it was fortunate that he had found an ally in his grandmother. Without her...

Yes. Weekends were for them. The rest of the time, they used the telephone. For hours. Sometimes, Brigitte would show up.

But during the week there were classes, and books, and his little band of friends.They were seven, virtually inseparable even if everyone of them had their own interests. He had known several of them back in Paris. Others, like Gaspard, he had met right in the physsical assesment. When they weren't studying or protesting – some of them had written against the intellectual vacuity of the teaching, - those were the words, they filled their time as they could. One day Emmanuel and Mathias had written a sonet full of erotic allusions, pretended that it was written by another of their friends, printed it and stuffed the girls' mailboxes with it. Nothing to be proud of. Like that other time they had put a mouse in Sébastien's locket (2).

Nothing to be proud, again. But he managed to be liked, even loved, by his classmates. And by the school's guardian, because he always had time to talk to him. And by the janitors he kissed on their cheeks. And by Sébastien, who had the patience of a saint. He wasn't sure about the mouse's opinion, though.

They hanged at one bar with terrible food and good beer. Or at the karaoke one. Strasbourg was a city full of students and on that Thursday of June 2003 the weather was hot and the Bunnie's crowded enough. Just after the football match and a quick shower, they had decided to go there. It was a trashy, but nice place. When they entered the bar two young girls with cotton dresses were singing what sounded like Johnny Hallyday's _Noir c'est noir_ , only that they were uninteligible.

“Is that English?”, Emmanuel overheard over the music and the noise. He knew he was suppossed to answer the question. After all he was the one with the outdated musical taste. Gaspard had once asked if he was actually fifty. Emmanuel didn't remember if this was asked before or after he knew about how once had received Brel's complete discography as a birthday present. When he was fifteen.

“Yes, that's the original version. Not from Johnny, but from some Spanish group, I don't remember exactly their name” (3). He did remember it. A Spanish group with a German singer who used an English stage name. The thing is, he prefered Johnny's version.

“ _You_ are a better singer anyway”, Mathias joked.

They had sit at their usual table and were looking at the two young girls. No, is not that they didn't sing well enough; they were good, but their style was completely inadequate for the song, as if they were refraining themselves but, still, their voices were untamed horses. Not that they looked worried about it. They were laughing all the way, and ended the song with an exagerated bow to the audience.

Stepping out the scene, they came to sit next to Emmanuel and his friend's table. When she sat down, one of them involuntarily dropped her giant handbag. What looked like a music score fell from it. Emmanuel handed it to the nearest girl after furtively looking at the cover. Rossini's _Armida_.

“Rossini _buffo_ or Rossini _serio_?”, he asked, looking at the girl's eyes. She had blue eyes and blondish, wavy hair. She returned him a smile. Unlike Emmanuel, who didn't look at women as potential preys (only Brigitte counted), she seemed interested. Not in Rossini, but in him. As in aroused. She put the score back in her purse.

“ _Serio_ , of course”, the other girl answered for her. This one had chesnut hair and hazel eyes, and was considerably shorter than her friend. Her French was then strongly accented. Her cheeks blushed when he said “Good choice”. He then added that even he liked _Il Barbiere_ or _La Cenerentola_ , which also showed his genius, he appreciated more his serious operas.

The girls turned out to be named Cristina and Elena, and both made a pause as if their names were a sort of joke no one of the young men understood. Actually no one in Strasbourg would have understood, exception made of Spanish students or expats (4). In five minutes they all were sharing the same table. The girls, who came from Spain, turned to be opera singers, training opera singers who attended a masterclass with a retired mezzosoprano. Several puns were exchanged, beer jars were drunk and they parted three hours later.

***

One week later they had met again. The girls arrived when Emmanuel was singing, as he loved to do. Something from Aznavour, Elena mumbled for herself. She didn't know that much about chanson française, but her mother loved Aznavour. The bar's lights drawed out golden reflections of his messy hair. It was an absurdity, but lust hit her suddenly. She had experienced it other times before, and was unmistakable. Gooseflesh, a sort of uneasiness in her reins, the conscience her clothes were pressing her too much, the sweat at her hair roots. That was how it worked with her. In top of that, there were feelings, or so she believed.

“He can carry a tune”, Cristina said, and she was right. Last week she had practically throwed herself at the young Frenchman, but to no effect. Aymeric had then told her “Don't bother, he's taken”.

“But some of us are free”, he had added. And Cristina had shrugged off her apparent defeat. She always did. Often finding more interesting things in their way out of obstacles. Example given, with time she would stop singing and become a conductor. With her own ensemble. As she had told Elena later, in one of their rare conversations, she wasn't made to crush against walls but to circle around them.

A hastily explanation of Emmanuel and Brigitte's story had followed. Not that they had been told that much about their relationship. Only the minimum bare. Still, Elena looked at the young lad like he had stepped out of a novel. From 150 years ago. It was that or one of these horrible tv movies, her more irrespectful side said.

“Which Rossini serio?”, asked Emmanuel later, over a glass of red wine. “ _Guillaume Tell_? _Tancredi_? _Zelmira_? Ah. _Armida_.” She was sorry about having asked for wine. It was cheap, it tasted bitter and it wasn't helping it with her heat.

She wondered if he always started his conversations in that blunt way, about Rossini or whatever he talked about. He looked at her like she was the only person in the world, but without a trace of lust. Whereas she was fantasizing about his mouth and what could... Looking at his traits, there were a lot of things that shouldn't work together. The nose was too long and there was a gap between his teeth. His hair and combs seemed to be enemies, back then. But even the effect of that irregularities was devastating. She barely knew him but was captivated. Why exactly she didn't know and the following years wouldn't help her in solving the mystery.

It only became more insoluble. He existed, and she wanted him. Even before he was known.

“ _Maometto II_ ”, she answered, and his smile became genuine then. She was drunk enought to softly sing the first verses of _Giusto ciel, in tal periglio_. Only for herself. Only for themselves. Did he notice? (5)

And then the young lads left again.

***

The third night, they sang a duet. It was a disaster. She couldn't still adapt herself to sing any other thing than opera, and infected him with her nervousness. The heat had come back. Masterclasses were coming to an end. Also classes at the ENA. She would left the city next week, and he wouldn't be around by then. She felt clumsy and daring and drank too much again, and when, in contrast to last two weeks, they decided to stay behind, because he was talking her about how Bach was actually his favorite composer (she was shocked he had been playing piano since his childhood) and the reasons why he fascinated him. Elena's interest in Bach was relative. And she was trying to stay rational, there was that little voice inside her head that told her how to walk straight, how to avoig laughing like a lunatic.

As for walking straight, it failed spectacularly. Emmanuel offered to accompany her to her lodging, as she called it in an old fashioned way, and they walked out of the karaoke bar, she leaning heavily on him, clutching his arm so she wouldn't fall on the not very clean floor. When they arrived to the dark street next to her hotel, she suddenly made him stop and passionately kissed that mouth she had been lusting about during the last two weeks. She reached for it so hastily that she stepped on his toes. His smell invaded her.

She didn't say anything. She couldn't say anything coherent anyway. Her action was clear enough. Even fourteen years later, Elena couldn't assure if he had started to respond to her kiss or not. What she reminded clearly was that he broke the kiss, if it could be called that way, and that he made sure she didn't fall. He still escorted her to her hotel, where she shared a room with Cristina, and left immediatly. Pretending nothing had happened.

And really, nothing more had happened. He was taken, Cristina reminded her the next morning when she woke up with a hangover and the lingering rests of a very explicit dream she had had about him. Taken and faithful.

Exactly what he was, fourteen years later.

Taken, faithful and now with nuclear weapons.

It wasn't the kind of man she usually met.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I have read conflicting accounts about his skills, or lack of, in Spanish. His friend and former classmate Hollande's spokesperson Gaspard Gantzer says they were taught Spanish at the ENA. So... I went for it.  
> (2) These stories come from several biographies and articles... Including the mouse one.  
> (3) Everyone in Spain knows them: Los Bravos.  
> (4) I'm letting you to guess where the joke would be, in 2003.  
> (5) In case you are wondering, YES, there's an interview out there in which he names Maometto II and his admiration for Rossini (and his serious operas in general).
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment, like, and so on. Until next chapter!


	5. O altero ostel, soggiorno di stirpe ancor più altera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with some trivia about the French presidential palace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is becoming a sort of a leitmotiv, but I'll tell it again. English is not my first language. I'm sure there's something in the text that scaped the autocorrector. Please be patient with me!  
> Notes are at the end.

**V**

  
  


**_O altero ostel, soggiorno di stirpe ancor più altera_ **

  
  


_ O altero ostel, soggiorno _

_ Di Stirpe ancor più altera, _

_ Il tetto disadorno _

_ Non obliai per te! _

_ Ah! solo in tua pompa austera _

_ Amor sorride a me. _

(Oh haughty palace, dwelling

of even a haughtier dynasty

My unadorned home

I didn't forgot because of you!

Ah, in your austere pomp

only love smiles to me!)

_ Come in quest'ora bruna _ . VERDI,  _ Simon Boccanegra _ .

  
  
  
  
  


**2017**

They said the palace was under a curse, and even if she had dismissed the idea right before those who had dared to tell this to her face – with anonymous, backhanded gossip, she could manage – she could understand why. First ladies, a man had told her, had been disappearing during the last decades. Of course he meant it metaphorically. The last two presidents entered the palace with a woman, and ended their mandates with a different one. Chirac a.k.a. _Mr. Five-Minutes-Including-The-Shower_ had been notoriously unfaithful. Mitterrand... no one believed that his little secret could have remained hidden in this era (1). But even without the adventures of its four last tenants, the palace had enough history to have its own ghosts. Not in a literal sense of course. More as in how the weight of their lives was still present.

Not only the previous presidents, a bunch of them still alive. The palace was almost three centuries old, since it was built for the Count of Evreux. It had belonged later to la Pompadour and to the Crown. Louis XVI's cousin had baptized the Hôtel de Evreux as Elysée-Bourbon. She had been fond of occultism. And then, the Revolution came and the palace had been a printing office, a  _ café-chantant _ and ultimately a royal residence again. Napoleon's horrid sister Caroline and her husband Murat had lived there, and left their mark. Namely, in that silver room where the only president who ever died inside the Elysée left this world in his lover's arms... or rather in  _ her _ mouth if legend had to be believed (2). There died the First French Empire, too, when Napoleon had signed his second abdication in 1815. And previously, his first wife had received it as a parting gift after the divorce. The furtive shadow of a lonely woman, finally abandoned by her younger husband.

Parallels of this kind, she thought immediately, were ridiculous. Yet his schedule inside or outside the palace was so crowded that managing to have breakfast or dinner together was no minor feat. The dinner, that they shared at 23:00 p.m., was a kind of ritual he always honored if he wasn't on a State visit. That night was no exception.

“I am told they caught you just next to the Grand Palais”, she said over the rests of the simple omelettes she herself had cooked. She sometimes did that. Dismiss the service from the private rooms and cook something herself.  _ They _ were his bodyguards. “The general was panicking already”.

He smiled, just as he used to do during the presidential campaign when he escaped to drink coffee at a Starbucks or when he decided he could go alone on the Metro. His tendence to improvisation during official visits – even with those events being something controlled  _ ad nauseam _ \- brought them mad. In a certain way he would feel sorry for them, but one thing he felt irrenunciable was his personal freedom, or whatever was left of it. One day or two during the week, he and Brigitte would go to the theatre, or dine at one of their favourite restaurants.

Maybe this taste for his personal liberty, even if he had voluntarily chosen to put himself in golden chains, so to speak, had been determinant at the hour of choosing the Bureau d'Angle (3) as his personal office. The Salon Doré, he reserved for more formal occasions. But for his daily workplace he had chosen that room he knew so well from the times he was secretary adjoint and spend hours talking to Morelle, over a mojito or a whisky. Above all, that bureau, that had been also Giscard's decades ago, allowed Emmanuel to join the private rooms without being noticed. It even allowed the president to discreetly leave the palace if he wanted.

(There was also that window from where he could see her office on the ground floor and wave at her now and then.)

  
  


“I am also told you weren't caught alone”, she went on, with a frown.

Concerned? She was sure enough of herself to not seriously fear what Bernadette Chirac had called  _ the butterflies _ , the kind of women, generally young and attractive, who always tend to surround a powerful man. Especially when he's not old or uncomfortable to look at. Indeed, he was generally the jealous one, to that extent she was unique to his eyes. But he did take care to not hire too much attractive women. And there was that gossip about the pretty brunette at Bercy who hadn't followed the elected president at the Élysée. Officially, she wasn't competent enough. Unofficially, she had dared to force her way to the minister's arms. Without success.

“ Let me guess, you have been informed by some kind soul”.

“It doesn't matter, who told me. I have my own eyes, Emmanuel, there's that magazine with the photo and the stupid headline, and the comments... The next thing I learn about that Mendieta woman is that you were walking with her next to the Grand Palais”

The comments that his friend had told him not to read. Of course, he had read them the other night in Brussels. Nothing particularly original,but most of them offensive. To his wife.The worst thing was how most of these were attacks against him, only that using Brigitte as a mean. She was always mortified when suggested that she wasn't good enough, that he had probably a double life, because she was too old for him.

… “And besides that, there's the fact that now I have two different versions about how you two met.”.

He sighed, pulled at the cuffs of his black turtleneck, rested his chin on his hands, looked at her. Only the sound of  _ Nemo _ chewing one of his toys could be heard. They had to be vigilant, or the veterinary would be visiting again... Emmanuel nudged his dog's back with his foot and the animal groaned with contentment. Probably he was tired because he'd been running after the garden's ravens.

“It was pure hazard. Besides, I don't think she could be easily recognized with that knitted cap and the trenchcoat”

But he had recognized her instantly. Not only thanks to his much vaunted photographic memory. She smell of peaches, just like fourteen years ago. He looked away, while his wife examined his profile.

“Someone probably has seen it. Someone probably has filmed it. If that ridiculous photo has unchained a mediatic storm I don't want to know what a video of you two walking together as the night falls could originate”.

  
  


She still remembered the farcical saga of Hollande's scooter. With her husband, she knew there wasn't a hiding place where he would escape to spend the night with someone else, because he did share all his nights with her. However, with an opposition that had not discovered yet how to counter her husband on a political basis but always was ready to throw itself at the least trace of a possible controversy... A big deal would be made about the President's safety, even if they didn't worry that much. Only if such debates could harm him. Politically of course. Her greatest fear was that he could be unhappy because he had failed his  _ mission _ . Or for any other reason.

“Mimi could look at that”.

“Mimi doesn't control Instagram, darling”.

“It's true, that”.

Brigitte did not have accounts on social networks, but somewhat understood better than him how they worked.

Emmanuel got up, put on his shoes again. He had still work to do. Probably he would stay at his desk at least until 2:00 a.m., when he would join her at their bedroom.  _ Nemo _ also was on his four legs, yawning and waving his tail. The dog would follow him to the bureau d'Angle, lie in the carpet and look at him. Sometimes the president wondered if  _ Nemo _ knew about his other dog, the one that Tiphaine was taking care of and who never would put one of his white paws at the presidential palace. Maybe Nemo did in an obscure, instinctive way. Probably he didn't care. Like all dogs, he loved his master. That was all his life. Loving, without questioning.

He leaned to kiss his wife, pressing her shoulder. She took a breath before asking:

“You would tell me immediately if something happened... with that soprano, or with any other...”

Already at the threshold, he turned his head to look at her.

“You know I'd do”, the president said, instead of  _ nothing will happen _ .

He exited the room, followed by the muffled sound of  _ Nemo _ 's nails.

  
  
  
  


***

  
  


“ _ I wonder... Why are you carrying a framed Rossini autograph? Or it was a gift from some recent admirer?” _

_ She had smiled. _

“ _ It's starting conversations with an allusion to Rossini a sort of ritual for you?” _

“ _ No. I'm just curious. Do you carry it as a lucky charm?”. _

_ Elena frowned, kicked a diminutive stone out of her way. Maybe it was from the gardens. She wouldn't trip again, that would be lame. _

“ _ I don't believe in these things. Actually, it was a present from...” _

_ He remembered she had paused, because a police car had passed them by, its siren yelling. Emmanuel had looked away, sinking his chin inside his leather jacket. He fell like a thief, or as a fugitive, and he enjoyed it in a certain way. Once the sound of the siren vanished he touched her arm, as if telling he still was interested on the origins of the Rossini manuscript. _

“ _... Carmen. My manager. She's like a...” Mother? Good fairy? She stumbled with her words. “It was her late husband's. A collectionist of some sort. Books, manuscripts, letters, scores... He had to sell everything at some point, and that manuscript was one of the few things he kept”. _

“ _ It must be hard, to sell one's books”, the president said. _

_ They had arrived to the Champs Elysèes. A group of tourists looked at him, vaguely curious. Some of them starting to talk about how much the man in the leather jacket looked like the French president. Or he imagined that's what they were saying, thanks to their gestures. _

“ _ ¡Y como te decía, es hora de volver al hotel!”  _ (4) _ , Elena abruptly exclaimed. Very over-the-top. So much for her acting skills, he thought. Surrounding her waist with his arm like they were a couple visiting the city, he hurried in direction to the Place Clemenceau, dominated by De Gaulle's monument and the Grand Palais. The tourists decided they had more important things to look at. Emmanuel retired then his arm from Elena's waist. She sighed. _

_ Frustrated? Maybe. _

“ _ He hated the palace, did you know?”, he said, breaking the silence. On solemn occasions, he – well, presidents – would leave a flower wreath at the General's feet. But the occasion wasn't solemn now, and not even serious. What would the General think about the president escaping from his palace. What would the General do. All presidents were asked the same, asked themselves the same. “L'Élysée. He would rather had Vincennes or Les Invalides as a residence”. _

“ _ To think you could be living next to Napoleon's tomb right now”, she said. “Definitely you were fortunate he didn't got away with that. L'Élysée has more glamour that our own presidential palace anyway”. La Moncloa had been once a gracious palace inhabited by Goya's muse. Now was one of these neo-herrerian abominations built under Franco's dictatorship. _

_ They left the General's statue behind, went ahead by the Winston Churchill avenue. By then, everyone in the Palace who had to knew the president had disappeared, so to speak, and he would be  _ intercepted _ in a few minutes. _

_ This time, she was the one who touched his arm. _

“ _ Why didn't you stay?”, said Elena, abruptly. Because she knew they didn't have any time left, because she wanted to know, because she had wondered about that night at Strasbourg fourteen years ago often. Because even if she had had other relationships, one doesn't forget easily about kissing presidents. Future presidents anyway. _

“ _ Because you were drunk, and it wasn't fair for you. Because I loved someone else and wasn't fair for her. Because you had a friend up there and we had to take you to the bathroom so you could... well,  _ undrink _ all that wine. And because a part of me really wanted to stay, and I wasn't thinking clearly enough”. _

“ _ Oh”. She didn't ask which part but had a light of pride in her eyes. And something else between hunger and foolish hope. _

_ Yes, oh. There. He had said it. _

  
  


***

Chus was discussing on his favorite forum about royalty. Rumor was that Prince Harry would announce his engagement soon. At that moment he was arguing with a certain LilyUK66 who had strong opinions against an American actress becoming Her Majesty's granddaughter-in-law. He suspiced LilyWhatever had other problems with her than her nationality and was ready to attack. Then he was cut short in the middle of a sentence when a whirlwind dressed on a trenchcoat stormed his room, collapsing on the sofa. Her knitted cap landed on the floor. Spreading her arms, Elena looked at the void – also known as the minibar – for a second or two and said:

“I need your help”.

“If you are referring to the strike, negotiations are still on their way, Maestro Rinaldi has decided to post several photos of him and hubby enjoying their dinner at Fouquet's, Aguirre has menaced to leave again, and all indicates we may save a performance or two of your run next week. But in concert form. Is still not sure, though”.

He was going to turn to his MacBook, ready to torn that LilyUK66 to pieces. Verbally of course. But Elena was there, practically tearing herself from her trenchcoat and looking at him bewildered, like she didn't remember about the strike or that she was in this particular city to sing opera.

“That's not the help I want. I want an e-mail adress. A particular one, I  _ know _ it still exists. Do your research, I'll have some mail to write”.

He was particularly shocked when she told him to whom she was planning to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The little secret is of course his illegitimate daughter...  
> (2) Felix Faure, the only president of the French Republic who has died inside the palace. On February 1899 he reportedly had a stroke while his lover, actress Marguerite Steinheil, was in the middle of a blowjob. This earned her the nickname of pompe funèbre  
> (3) It is also known as "le bureau qui rend fou" or "the bureau that provokes madness" because whoever occupies it is just next the president's office. So everyone wants it.  
> (4) "And, as I told you, it's time to go back to the hotel!"
> 
> Well that's all for now. Until the next one! Please feel free to comment, etc, etc.


	6. Mit Extrapost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Strauss music, red wine and homes that no longer have a cat (unfortunately)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's nothing new if I tell you that:  
> -English is not my first language  
> -I can misspell things  
> -I am going to hell.  
> For the opera references etc etc, see at the end of the chapter.

**VI**

**_Mit Extrapost_ (1) **

**2018**

**January**

She's always surprised at how tiny the flat is. Or seems to be now. In her childhood, she didn't think or herself as someone living in a sort of matchbox. This is a world in which she was born and raised, but which seems completely alien now. On this first day of the year, which traditionally she spends with her family if she's not busy singing abroad, she's again astonished at how two adults, four children and a cat ( _Nelly_ was her name) managed to live between these walls. There's a living room, not very large, crowded with the dining table, a dark tv unit with a bookcase, a sofa and several chairs. There's a dark piece too narrow to be called a dining room, with a bookcase and two armchairs that connects the hallway with the living room. There is a desperately narrow kitchen where one has to perform a strange dance in order to open the cupboards, an equally tiny bathroom. Only her parents had the luxury of intimacy in their bedroom. The children slept in abatible beds in the living room. All the windows look into the interior courtyard, narrow and not very luminous. There's a tiny corner of blue sky visible from there. One time _Nelly_ tried to catch the neighbour's parrot and fell all the four stories, landing relatively unhurt. The quality of the furniture has improved since her childhood, the flat looks now more modern and comfortable, all the siblings have left the nest and there's no cat, unfortunately. Still, it won't enlarge magically. And her parents refuse to abandon their neighbours and friends. They also refuse to celebrate the new year meal anywhere else.

It's a ritual she awaits with certain impatience. But she always feels a sort of relief when i'ts over.

The last bars of _Tales from the Woods of Vienna_ die as Elena and her sister Isabel busy with the tablecloth. It's white with diminutive green clovers, set just on an oilcloth tablecloth to preserve the wood from _accidents_ . Namely all these glasses falling and spreading wine or beer on the table. As usual on every first of January, their parents have wake up early enough so they could turn on the TV and watch the New Year's Concert. Opera singer or not – and she's been performing the night before, the Teatro Real just making the pause the Spanish tradition of Lucky Grapes demanded (2) –, she helps every year to set the table, often with her father making questions about the conductors. The whole time he looks at his daughter like she is made of precious porcelain. It's moving and unsettling. She thinks of Olga, far away, also at her father's side. Only that he no longer knows who she is. _It's harsh, the first time_ , the mezzo has told her via Skype. _Then, one gets accustomed_.

“Have you worked with this one?”

Year after year Elena answers yes or not, often adding some innocent trivia. This year her answer is no, that she would like to, and that he once won Roberto Benigni in a joke contest. Her father quietly laughs. Isabel smiles, showing her perfect teeth. She works in a dental clinic now and everyone there have perfect teeth too. They make Elena feel almost ashamed of hers. The other two members of the family, the elder brother Rafael and their little sister Marta have reasonable jobs too and a very reasonable family life. He's a veterinary and she a nurse. Both have children. Elena was the one who made the eccentric choice. Isabel is single and not interested in sharing her life with anyone but her cat. _Nelly II_. Of course.

Elena rushes to the kitchen to collect forks and knives. Winter or not, her mother has always the window slightly open, so she can breath, she usually says. She's performing the aforementioned dance, while she looks after the boneless veal roast and the “special sauce” which will probably remain a mystery for Elena, who never has the time, the talent or the will for cooking. The smell is delicious, and mixes with all the other smells from the courtyard. Other families being reunited, neighbours she hasn't seen in centuries. It's unlikely she will see them this time. The parrot from the old lady next door, still alive and repeating the same words: _Hola, Príncipe, Socorro. Príncipe_ is his name and _Socorro_ it's probably him being annoyed at his owner, but he's still there, unlike poor old _Nelly_. Her mother gives her that amused look when she fails to find the drawer where knives are.

The table is finally set while the concert still goes on. Elena recognizes the piece of course. _Unter Donner und Blitz_ . She remembers the fun she had one Christmas in a performance of _Die Fledermaus_ , with all the cast and chorus dancing to this music. It's on her top three, with that time a mischievous baritone put a porn magazine on the conductor's copy of the score. She mumbles some apology and goes to her parent's bedroom, where she has left her handbag and her coat. She unlocks her phone, she sits on the bed and writes hastily.

_Happy New Year. You are the constant object of my thoughts; I exhaust my imagination in thinking what you are doing. I am OK if you don't answer this one, like you didn't answer the rest. Only wanted you to know. Happy New Year again. E._

She sends the message to the e-mail address Chus found for her. He didn't have to do a great effort. That in past years the French Minister of Economy (and Industry, and something else she never remembered) openly shared his personal email address came on handy for him. Or for her. Since that fateful night of their walk, she has been sending messages. None of these has had an answer. Of course there's the possibility he no longer uses the account. Security reasons, rules, and all that. Of course, there's the possibility he doesn't care about rules. Of course, there's also the possibility of her mails going to the spam folder. Elena keeps writing anyway. Not with such frequency he would be scared. Or too graphically. In the drafts she'll never sent there's that mail in which she had decided to tell him about the dream she had had the night before.

Elena had dreamt about awakening on a white, sunny room. Only a sheet covered her naked body, and when she opened her eyes, he was there at her side, he and his blue eyes. Blue like blue marble, that _marble sky_ Otello's libretto spoke of. She'd always thought as an oppressive grey sky, preceding the storm. Not of a blue one. _Pel ciel marmoreo giuro.._. Or perhaps that was in the original Shakespeare play, she wasn't sure. Only that in the dream she just had been conscious of how blue his eyes were, and how she could felt the heat of his body even before he touched her, and how _delightfully_ tired she was feeling. Then, very slowly, the man on her dream retired the sheet, and she felt how the white piece of cloth caressed her skin as she's more and more exposed. The whole time he kept looking at her eyes, not her now fully naked body. And then he...

The bell door tears the soprano from her reverie and the arms of the Emmanuel of her dream. To the real Emmanuel, she hasn't dared to send that infamous mail and it's better that way. She has read about a young lady that send him too many erotic messages, during months. She was sued, or something like that. It's also awkward that she's on her parent's dark bedroom, while the sound of the _Radetzky Marsch_ and of clapping – her five years old niece Laura running into the living room and joining - flushing and jumping to her feet while she exits the room and greets her siblings, their spouses and children. Her phone is still on her sweaty hand. The already crowded flat is now full of exclamations of excitement and good wishes.

***

“So that's it, the New Year is already ruined”, Rafael says, half amused, half bitter. He's sitting at Elena's side, next to his daughter and his wife, a blonde statuesque beauty born in Navarre. His comment it's part of the ritual, too. And he is fast enough to take the wine glass out of Laura's reach. Probably one of the glasses is going to end shattered like every single year, either by Laura, her little cousin Daniel or one of the adults. But not in his watch. Laura protests a little, but decides it's better to play with her fork. She's not allowed to use a knife yet. Why on Earth she is allowed to play with another pointy thing, it's something Elena doesn't understand.

The concert and a special program are over, and the TV station has ruined the charm of the Golden Hall of the Musikverein and all its flowery ornaments with bad news and catastrophes. Someone has died, someone has been killed. Catastrophes and accidents. The presenter has wished a happy new year, and the boneless veal is delicious but the bubble of happiness set by the music of the Strauss dynasty (and other composers for ever eclipsed) is vanished for the next twelve months. In fact, is a strange mix of happiness and melancholy about a world that no longer exists. The ghost of that Europe slaughtered by World War I. She's sure of having read that somewhere.

“Actually I'm happy all this is over”, Elena's mother says. The soprano knows she's being sulking through three weeks of festivities. First Christmas Eve, then Christmas, then the Innocents, New Years Eve... All full of last-time shopping, meals, dinners and a lot of stress. Her mother hates all of this, and year after year she complains about the sadness that invade her in December.

“But it's not over, Grandma!”, Dani protests. He's four years old and awaits the magic night of the Fifth of January. On the other side of the table his cousin seems to refrain from telling that crazy rumor she has heard at the school. Dani's belief in the magic of the Three Wise Men (3) is still pure.

“We all know, sweety”, Marta says, kissing her son's curly head. “And that you have been a good boy too. Papa Noel knew about it, and the Three Kings have received his message and bring you nice things”. Her glass is the only one, apart from those of the children of course, that only contains water. She's pregnant again, and her husband, beside her, has a look of pride in his eyes. Elena can't stand her brother-in-law. Not because of his job – Marta met him at the hospital, he works as an undertaker, at that door where families who have lost their loved ones are ushered to deal with the details of the funeral and burial, still under the shock of their loss – but because of his personality. Garrulous and vain.

On the TV, the presenter talks now about the city's cleaning services, which have picked up all the trash left by people celebrating last night. She doubts they have reached this neighborhood at this hour, judging for the state of the park at the end of the street. It has improved since her childhood, but...

“Oh, Aunt, look, you are there on TV!”, Laura suddenly yells. All the family turns to the screen, which shows the customary section about the celebration last night in the city's theatres. And there she is, still in her scene gear from Act I, with the scene covered by a screen in which the famous clock tower of the Puerta del Sol was shown. The director, by the way, had been furious about interrupting the performance only for eating those twelve fucking grapes, as he exclaimed in his strongly accented English.

“By the way, when it's going to be broadcasted?” her father asks. She smiles as she turns her eyes from the screen. Her father tries to collect every single one of her performances.

“It's not planned, but I'll send you an in-house recording next week”.

A moment of silence ensues, during which another voice comes from the screen. It's _his_ voice, promptly covered by the Spanish translation. That's the problem with languages in this country, everything is dubbed, she thinks. This is another customary section on the news on the First of January. Other countries' celebrations, and fragments of speeches from European leaders. Out of the corner of her eye she sees him, with his blue eyes and his pink lips devouring the screen, and the vivid images that assaulted her on the bedroom come back with a vengeance. As the image changes from the fireworks at the Champs Elysées to Angela Merkel's New Year's allocution, she involuntarily throws her half-full glass of wine on the tablecloth.

“Good luck!”, her brother-in-law exclaims, while dripping his fingers on the spreading red stain and touching his and his son's foreheads.

***

Several hours later the ritual is finished. Carmen has told Elena she would pick her up. It's been years since she last drove herself, and she's honest enough to recognize she's not good at it. Too impatient, her instructor told her once. In the meantime, she helps with the dirty dishes, the now stained tablecloth. She feels she rushes too much maybe, but she really needs to rest. There's some mockery from her siblings and her parents about her rush to go away. Nothing malicious except the usual banter. For example, her reaction which causes the loss of yet another glass and the children's hilarity. On the other side of the border, her photo with the President has caused rumors, even if no footage has emerged of their walk. On this southern side of the Pyrenees, this story is barely known. It's incredible how two neighbouring countries can ignore each other. Even if her family has heard a thing or two about her adventures in Strasbourg. Less than Carmen has heard, anyway.

When she comes back from the kitchen and recovers her phone from Laura's hands, the meal goes on, and its laterly followed by sweets and coffee. And cider, since she's the only one in the family that really enjoys champagne and just adapts to the majority's wishes.

It's seven o'clock and the night has already fallen when Carmen rings the bell door. She walks into the street, after descending the stairs – the elevator is out of service again -. Carmen is waiting for her in the car. She's wearing a plaid skirt and a red sweater and her earrings are shaped like bees. These are new, Elena says to herself.

“Look, this is where we met.”

She points to the place where that cultural association used to stand. The building was demolished last year, and in its place there's an advertisement about the new fashion store that it's due to open its doors there, one day or another. There's also the vague feeling she's making a sort of reference to pop culture.

Sometimes, she barely recognizes this place.

“I have received the photos for your next album”. She's recording it next week in London. A recital with forgotten masterpieces of Mercadante and Pacini, as it's advertised. But she has been photographed for the cover, and then her image manipulated to death. “ Honestly, I don't know what to think about that. Chus has sent them to you via Whatsapp”.

“It can't be worse than the Westminster series. Or that Karajan album with light coming from his crotch (4)”. She unlocks her phone, tries to establish a wireless connection. She fails at the first attempt.

“Nothing is worse than the Westminster series”, Carmen acquiesces, while she drives out of the neighbourhood and heads to the center of the city.

One of the first things Elena decided to spend her money in when her meteoric rise started was intimacy. So she had bought a luxury attic in the very heart of the city, in the so-called Madrid of the Austrias. The Austrias being the Habsburgs and the neighbourhood a now monumental zone where Velázquez, Cervantes and Lope had lived and died. And where she had now her pied-a-terre, in a rehabilitated building and with a privileged view of that part of the city's skyline. The view over the city is one of her personal triumphs. She who had spent her childhood looking at that ridiculous fragment of sky. When she has to spend time in her hometown, because she's singing there, or because she's recovering from some illness, that's her home. Also, it's in the center. The part of the city they only had put their feet on when it was Christmas, or in certain weekends. It's now hers.

“Oh good Lord, this is terrible. Truly, utterly terrible”.

Carmen notices Elena is gasping for air. She's overreacting, the photos are positively horrid but there's no need of acting like that. Or rather she guess she's overreacting. She has more important things to do right now, like looking at the road.

This is why she doesn't notice that Elena, who has finally found her wireless connection, is not looking at Whatsapp but at her email, and has just discovered that five-years-old Laura has (unvoluntarily, no doubt) sent the only draft of her account to its receiver. How, she can't even imagine. She only hopes the girl doesn't understand a word in French or that even has seen the mail with her very own, very pure eyes. She feels so ashamed she fails to breath.

Worse still, she has an answer.

_Happy New Year. I don't think what you describe in your dream is biologically possible for any man but I feel flattered, so to speak. About the second one... Please, don't plagiarize Bonaparte (5). EM._

As a New Year purpose she must remember to find a good password for her phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Mit Extrapost (Special delivery), op. 259 is a work by Eduard Strauss, and what's better for a chapter which takes place on the first day of the year  
> (2) Eating Twelve grapes at the clock chimes on the last day of the year is a Spanish tradition. And yes, usually performances, if there are still going on, are stopped so people can eat them.  
> (3) Spanish children traditionally received presents from the Three Wise Men, or the Three Kings if you prefer. That doesn't mean other traditions like that of Santa Claus (Papá Noel in Spain) or other characters are not present too. Most children will receive something both days.  
> (4) Westminster records was an American record label. Their reissues of the Westminster Gold series are infamous for their covers, which had an humorous intent anyway. The "Karajan with light coming of his dick" one was meant to be serious and belongs to his recording of Richard Strauss Die Heldenleben. Check it.  
> (5) Because "You are the constant object of my thoughts; I exhaust my imagination in thinking what you are doing" is copied from Napoleon's letters.
> 
> With this, until next chapter. Enjoy, feel free to comment, etc, etc.


	7. Come si bruciano I cori a lento fuoco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which little more than listening to Donizetti happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your customary introduction about English not being my first language, this being my first fic (or rather the first one I properly write and share), etc etc. I know this chapter is short, but I hope to update again at the end of this week. So with that, enjoy.  
> (More notes at the end!)

**VII**

**_Come si bruciano i cori a lento fuoco_ **

_So anch'io la virtu magica_

_d'un guardo a tempo e loco,_

_so anch'io come si bruciano_

_i cori a lento fuoco_

_D'un breve sorrisetto_

_conosco anch'io l'effetto_

_di mensognera lagrima_

_d'un subito languor._

_Conosco i mille modi_

_dell'amorose frodi_

_i vezzi e l'arte facili_

_per adescare un cor._

_(I also know the magic virtue_

_of a glance in the right time and the right place_

_I also know how hearts burn_

_on a slow fire_

_Of a short smile_

_I also know the effect_

_of deceitful tears_

_and of an instant langor_

_I know the thousand means_

_love-frauds use_

_the charms and the easy arts_

_used to seduce a heart.)_

DONIZETTI, _Don Pasquale_ , Act I

**2018**

  
  


**February**

  
  


The Sun never sets on the French Republic. No one has pronounced this phrase, even if, in the 21th Century, is still true, for the most part. If one looks at the map of France's overseas territories, then that quote attributed to Philip II's empire is kind of... accurate. There is even a portion of Antarctica included in the lot. A portion which is bigger than certain European countries and which has a population of, approximately, 33. All these territories are now under his government, the relics of a world that had already disappeared when he was born, that of the French colonial empire. This office comes with a heavy baggage that every single candidate accepts when they decide to run for president. And there's more, not the certainty of being unpopular during their time at l'Élysée, or mocked. There's also the certainty that, at some point, the elected president is going to have blood in his, or her, hands. Legend always said (he heard it the first time he entered the palace, as adjoint secretary) that elected presidents feel one year older when they emerge from what Giscard baptized as PC Jupiter (oh the irony!) from the very first time, that very secret point in the palace's subsoil. People knows very little about this particular place, other than being a command center from where the President can unchain, or respond to, a nuclear attack. But is mostly the place from where one gives orders that will cost human lives. He can say now that the legend about feeling one year older after the first time is true, judging from his own experience on inauguration day...

Another legend of the palace tells that every president finds on the desk, once the inauguration is over, three enclosed envelopes, marked as confidential. They are supposed to be opened on moments of a great crisis for the presidency. The first one reads: “Say it's your predecessor's fault”; the second, “You can tell them the international situation is to blame”, the third: “Prepare three envelopes”. Hollande didn't left three envelopes for him, so either he's still resentful because of what everyone including the ex president calls his betrayal or more likely because the legend is false. He knows Sarkozy didn't left three envelopes, either. It's true that Sarko never liked Hollande after all. Rumor says that a former president told that joke to a foreign head of State. No names have been revealed so far, but the legend has stuck in the palace. Being told of it is a sort of tradition (1). Like being trapped inside the elevator. As for him, the next presidential elections are still far enough, but he'd rather burn that desk that leaving three envelopes for Madame Le Pen. Or her niece. It's bad enough when he has to receive her (Marine, not her niece) at the palace, as he does with all the political leaders (1).

So, since the Sun never sets on the French Republic, is fitting to have a president that barely sleeps. It's fortunate that he always had managed with four hours or five. People always wonders from where he takes his energy from. He's always doing something, going somewhere, sending messages to his ministers, often at absurd hours. Perpetuum mobile. Several times at a day, Brigitte – alarmed by the dark circles under his eyes, dark circles that make up can't entirely hide - insists he must eat something, sleep more, but he wasn't born to be quiet. His level of exigence towards the rest of mortals matches the one he has for himself. But not all mortals can manage with four hours of sleep. He often sees some of these people with whom he works at the verge of a burnout.

“Donizetti?” Alexis asks. It's been a long day, like any other since the inauguration, or even before. One that included calls from the White House – with, ahem, interesting turns about French wine – and receiving the President of the European Commision. Only that it's Friday, and when night falls and once his work is over the president will join his wife at la Lanterne to spend the weekend. He won't actually rest, bringing that damned blue folders with him. But at least there one can walk in the nearby park of Versailles - the palace has its own park, in which Mazarine, Mitterrand's secret daughter, used to ride her horse -, run or play tennis. Or could play proper tennis if the court was in a decent condition; he has resigned himself to not renovate it. In exchange, he boxes. His improvised rivals - members of his security retail - can guess his mood by the strength of his punches.

For a moment, he seems startled by the question. He often works with music in the background. Not having much time to play himself at l’Élysée, the piano is reserved to weekends at la Lanterne, or those rare moments in which he needs to unchain his wrath, frustration or any other feeling. One of these instruments brought from the national depot. Everything he uses now, or almost everything, is something incredibly expensive, valuable and definitely not his. He’s living on museums now. When he caresses the ivory keys with his fingers he almost feels like its previous owners - whoever they were - are spying over his shoulder. He plays Schumann, Liszt. He plays romantic songs. The piano is private. The music on his office, is semi private. It can be Chopin, which makes him think of Amiens, his childhood, Manette and of hot chocolate. It can be Mozart, or Bach, or of course, his beloved collection of great figures of the genre of _chanson française_ that make people wonder about his old fashioned tastes. But today is Donizetti.

“ _Don Pasquale_ ”, he replies, as the two characters on the speakers – obviously a live recording, and one with that slight distortion that betrays its origins, ripped from the radio - are discussing the virtues of a third one, the doctor's sister, not on stage. _Beautiful like an angel_ , _fresh like a lily_ , with a _pure and innocent sou_ _l_ , and so forth and so on. She's not actually his sister or pure for that matter, at least not pure from the point of view of that nineteenth-century audience the opera was written for, but that will be known later.

He looks at the gardens as the Secretary exits the room. At this hour of the day there's a part of the room in shadows, his white shirt standing out in the less lilt part. His photographer profits of the moment and takes a photo; she has a preternatural talent, Soazig. She must have been a painter in other life, if such thing exists. One of these magicians of _chiaroscuro_. Caravaggio or maybe Latour. Someone who paints with light and takes part of the model's (even when he never poses for her) soul with her. Soazig also manages to have him forget that she's there, and it's agreeable to joke with her or, in certain moments, to inverse the roles when it's him who takes a photo. She knows also when he wants to be left alone, and when he makes a gesture, she too leaves.

He profits to raise up the volume. The scene has changed, and the first bars introduce the new character, Norina, a young widow. The music is warm, witty, cheerful. Of course it's sung by Elena, or rather the Elena from several years ago, when she had not abandoned the role. There's something fresh in her voice, and yet one can hear the progress she has made in her technique. For example, there she's supposed to thrill and she doesn't success completely, but she conceals it quickly enough. Making fun of the romantic novel about an apparently irresistible young lady she's reading, Norina starts comparing herself to the woman in the book. Favorably of course.

She has stopped writing for the last weeks, he thinks. Maybe his second reply to that message was too much, Emmanuel says to himself. After letting her know that he had read her, ahem, much flattering fantasy, he had written another reply. _The next time you should include less iterations. And we – I mean you, or the random Google employer, and the American or Russian agents who spy foreign leaders' personal accounts, and I myself who had to read that – deserve better than that metaphor you used. I can give you some tips._ And since then she was silent. Is she offended by his comment about her writing skills? Ashamed? He doesn't know but kind of misses her mails. For the tips, he was being both semi serious and playful. He has written a novel with certain amount of erotic scenes after all, even if, as with the rest of his fictional works, that book he wrote long time ago won't be published any time soon. For the moment Brigitte has been the only reader of these pages. And the neighbour he asked to type it for him and who, years later, has been telling the entire country about the book (2).

Maybe _he_ should write to Elena. But how to start, _I’m sorry I had to tell how terrible you are at writing smut?_ Imagine the General doing that. What would the General do.

Elena, or rather Norina, goes on. He wonders about the kind of mise en scene this Don Pasquale had. He has listened this recording twice on the last weeks, and from the interval interviews little can be known except that the director has decided to set it in the 21th Century, and Norina wears a football shirt and little black shorts in her first scene. Why, is never explained by the director; only that he keeps changing the shirt depending on the opera house. It’s a cheap trick to make audiences react, Emmanuel thinks.This recording is from Rome. The same city in which the opera takes place. So she’s probably wearing an AS Roma kit, or part of it anyway. He also learns that Elena finds _Don Pasquale_ slightly tragic because you have a bunch of young people psychologically mistreating an old bachelor, a little crabby certainly but who doesn't deserve to be scammed by his doctor, his nephew and the girl he falls in love with. Still, she loves Norina _. You rarely play a character who is not the innocent, or wronged, or even fallen woman you usually find in opera But Norina is an experienced woman, yes I mean sexually experienced woman. And she’s not shown in a bad light at all. But all these women, innocent or not, fallen, virtuous or sinners, I love all of them, because unlike the tenors, we get to play interesting human beings._ The president is sure that this last phrase has caused some kind of controversy.

There’s always the risk of a controversy, he knows a thing or two about that. Phrases taken out of context, edited videos, ridiculous stories. If he goes running, there’s a controversy. If he adopts a hen or rather a pair of hens, the animals are _interviewed,_ so to speak, live on TV (3). Or rather their former owner. Than later he decides is a good idea to publish a video with the animals being received at their new home is another story. This is another thing he was prepared for, or thought he was prepared for when he decided to run for president. After all, he has seen it when he was secretary adjoint, and then minister. He may not attract rain like Hollande did, but he has to recognize now that he’s alone. He's prone to _accidents_. Something they have in common. Elena and him, not Hollande.

It’s fortunate his neighbour didn’t kept a copy of that manuscript. It could have ended like the hens, shown live on television.

 _I also know how hearts burn in a slow fire_ , Elena, or Norina, sings. There's something almost obscene in her _rallentando_ , something that suggest a extremely patient work of seduction, of undermining resistance. A hint of manipulation and fiery eyes waiting for the desired one to fall in the trap. It's curious how her disembodied voice coming from the speakers carries way more erotism than the mail with all her fantasies of white sheets and biologically impossible feats. It’s almost like she was right there, standing on at his side, almost on tip of her toes, her hand on his shoulder, whispering to his ear. _Purring_ through her barely parted lips and smelling of peaches. Yes, _purring_. There’s no other way to define how he imagines the scene. 

_Really. Are you getting excited at Donizetti's_ Don Pasquale _, of all the possible operas? And she even has started to sing Korngold yet. This is just an innocent cavatina, isn't it._

Retiring himself from the window, he pauses the music, puzzled. It’s not normal to feel like this just because this brief piece of music. Which is not especially sublime, sensual or memorable. The fun thing is he quite agrees with her opinion about this opera; there's something tragic underneath the levity and, on top of that, there's a final recapitulation on age difference he doesn't appreciate... at all.

He pushes the play button again, with a hint of exasperation. Norina continues her aria.

He decides to write with a sigh, as the last rays of sunshine vanish from the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- All the trivia about the palace in this and last is coming from Patrice Duhamel and Jacques Santamaria's book about L'Élysée. The story about the three envelopes can be found there (and that about every president being trapped at the elevator at some point of their office too).  
> 2- The story about this novel was revealed by one of Brigitte's biographers. It is known he has written several works of fiction, unpublished to this day.  
> 3- BFM "invited" one of the presidential hens, called Agathe and Marianne. I told you I read too much about Macron.
> 
> With this, as usual, until next episode. Enjoy, comment, and don't think that much in Donizetti's hidden meaning. Don Pasquale is not that deep.


	8. Non croce col nome che copra quest'ossa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A funeral, a bit of poetry and someone knowing too many euphemisms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have been reading, you already know. But anyway there we go.
> 
> This is my first fic. And it's not in my first language, so you'll have to be patient with me.  
> References to opera, or to other, er, cultural things, can be clarified by the ending notes.  
> Enjoy, feel free to read, comment, etc.

**VIII**

**Non croce col nome che copra quest'ossa**

_Non lagrima o fiore avrà la mia fossa_

_non croce col nome che copra quest'ossa!_

(Neither tears or flowers will my grave have;

no cross with a name will cover my bones!)

Addio, del passato. VERDI, _La Traviata_.

The soprano arrived early for the funeral. In the comfortable but chilling darkness of that Venetian church where the coffin of her illustrious colleage was displayed (an Italian flag as a cover, a giant photograph behind it: a portrait of _la Galimberti_ in one of her in one of her signature roles, Floria Tosca) only a few people witnessed the great singer's last bow. In a few hours, the Gotha of operistic world would be there. But for the moment only a handful of discreet admirers ventured into the temple, with flowers in their hands. Elena herself hed a bouquet of red and white carnations, which looked discreet when compared with the first funeral wreaths which had already arrived. Crossing herself with that automatism of well learned rituals in which she no longer believed, she left the bouquet next to the flowers sent from la Scala and la Fenice. There was some controversy about Galimberti's funeral chapel being held somewhere else than at the Venetian opera house, but Anna's family had made it clear: her wish was to stay far from la Fenice, after that infamous downfall with the opera house's artistic director decades ago. _They didn't want me alive then, they won't have me dead_ , Galimberti had exclaimed. The board had changed since then. Several times. And la Fenice, faithful to its name, had burnt and reborn again (1). Not enough to diminish Galimberti's grudge.

Another of her wishes was her ashes to be thrown at the Adriatic Sea. There will be no grave, no place to grieve over her. Galimberti had lived in Paris for the last decades even after her retirement, but had decided this last comeback to her hometown which had woken yesterday with the news of her death. _Ê morta Galimberti_ , proclaimed _Il Corriere del Veneto_ . _Galimberti se n'è andato_ , could be read on _La Repubblica_ . The usual banalities written in these cases. Elena knew that even if the vaste family of opera singers and aficionados in general felt sad and a little orphaned, the _great public_ had forgotten the voice of Anna Galimberti, for the most part. They would forgot again, right after the funeral. On occasions like this one, she couldn't help to remember one of the poems that had impressed her the more in her teenagehood. If seemed adequate, once more.

Despertaba el día,

y a su albor primero,

con sus mil ruidos

despertaba el pueblo.

Ante aquel contraste

de vida y misterio,

de luz y tinieblas,

yo pensé un momento:

_¡Dios mío, qué solos_

_se quedan los muertos!!_

_The town awoke_

_Before that contrast_

_Of life and strangeness,_

_Of light and darkness._

_I thought a moment_

_My God, how lonely_

_The dead are!_ (2) _  
_

Bécquer's poem made her think of dead leaves and muddy paths, and the first shovelful of dirt resounding on a coffin. A chill runs through her spine. Turning back from the altar, Elena spotted Francesca Girardi sitting on one of the last pews, near the western wall. She looked diminished from the last time she saw her in Paris, that time the three of them – and Olga, who wouldn't attend the funeral – were sitting on row 15 of Opéra Bastille. Or maybe was the dark, thick fur coat she was wearing, or the sunglasses, completely unnecessary inside the church unless it was her way to go incognito. As one of Galimberti's recordings started to sound from the gallery – _Adriana Lecouvreur_ (3), another of the Venetian singer's most celebrated roles -, no doubt to rehearse the funeral, she walked through the central aisle and sat just at Girardi's side. She received her in an unceremonious way:

“What a complete lie this aria is, don't you think?” Elena was so obviously startled that the old lady gave a little laugh. “ _Io son l'umile ancella del genio creator..._ The humble servant of the creator's genius, imagine that. No opera singer ever thought about being the simple instrument of the composer, not even those who proclaim their modesty. Remember what we told you about false modesty? Anna was many things, but she was not the humble servant of anyone. Listen at that attempt to do a pianissimo. Even if it sounds beautiful, it's not written, and on top of that she can't... couldn't. Tell me, where did you leave your guardian dogs?”

Elena guessed she was referring to Carmen and Chus. There was literally no one else who could be qualified as her guardian dog.

“At the hotel. We just flew back from Chicago”.

“Ah, yes, your were singing _Traviata_ there, no? Or it was _Lucia_? Did your finish your run?” Elena shook her head. Yes, she had. “It doesn't matter anyway. You arrived on time, that's the important thing today. We are not expecting the visit of some member of the government or the Senate for the funeral. Probably they don't care about culture, anymore. But it's better that way; they'd make a masquerade of the funeral. Did you heard something about culture from these Salvini or Di Maio guys since the campaign started? Anna would turn in the grave she's not going to have if she knew them near here”.

The aria from _Adriana Lecouvreur_ was cut short abruptly. After a few seconds of silence, the first bars of the instrumental introduction of Elisabetta's aria from act V of Verdi's _Don Carlo_ filled the church.

“ _Brava_ . Very fitting for the occasion”, Girardi said, with a snort. “ _You, who knew the vanities of this world_ ... (4) I've given instructions in my will so no one of my recordings is played at my funeral, darling. It reminds me of the times when I visited number 36 of Avenue Georges Mandel. _She_ often listened to _her_ own records. And _she_ always said: _Wasn't that wonderful?_ , like talking about someone completely different from herself. Someone who had died time ago. It was haunting. I've never wanted to feel like that, a sort of undead goddess of music. But Anna evidently didn't share my opinion”.

Number 36 of Avenue Georges Mandel meant Maria Callas and her last years in virtual seclusion. Elena had a lot of questions about these visits, and about other things regarding la Divina, but remained silent; it was probably not adequate to harass signora Girardi with that right now, and with Galimberti's coffin right before them!

“It's curious that with Anna and me marrying Frenchmen and living in Paris, she has decided to stage her burial in Venice. She didn't really miss her hometown, did you know? After what happened at La Fenice... It was really inconsiderate of the artistic director to fire her, wasn't it? Speaking of Frenchmen, it's true that rumor I keep hearing? Are you frolicking with the President?”

Elena was grateful to the church's semi darkness and to her own free hair. They helped to conceal her blush. Again, she wasn't a good catholic, and didn't believe that Anna Galimberti's spirit was looking at them from some point of the nave. But it seemed inadequate to talk about this with her dead body a few meters from them. She evoqued one of the last themes on his mails. His transition from advising her about how to write proper smut to the life and works of Johann Sebastian Bach was always a thing to behold. And sounded less obscene.

> _You just told me you weren't especially interested in Bach. How is that possible? According to your last mail, it's because everyone talks about mathematical precision in his works and you are annoyed at all that coldness. Where you see that coldness I see all the possible emotions. He is... he can't be properly defined in all his brilliancy. He is like a voyager between worlds._ (5) _  
> _

“So, is he feeding your kitty or not?”, Girardi insisted. “Oh, sweety, don't look at me that way. Anna wouldn't be scandalized. She told me everything, always, and sometimes in less delicate terms that I just used. Is a nice euphemism after all. I know many of these. We aren't made of ivory and gold, my dear, but of flesh. Now that you have discovered that you could answer to this old and not entirely discreet lady. I'll keep your secret”, the old soprano said, while her dead friend's yearning voice sang about France and youth lost forever. “I'm old and I'll die soon anyway. Opera singers rarely go to the grave alone. We love company”.

“He's not. We... for the moment we write each other”.

“How quaint. How delightfully old-fashioned. And yet in that photo you looked like you were going to eat him. It is understandable, how could you resist a young and definitely not uncomfortable to look at powerful man who chose Mozart and Offenbach for his inauguration. I guess you two didn't have the occasion yet”.

“He's busy, he's married, so I don't know where this is going... And anyway this has nothing to do with him being powerful, I met him before he was powerful.” Or a politician, for that matter.

> _I've never believed on politicians. And you are not an exception, for the most part. Yet, I remember clearly why for a moment I believed in you, in all the possible ways. You remember, your eulogy over Kohl's coffin? Of course you do.The way you pronounced_ c'est parce que vous avez laissé mourir la flamme. _In that moment, I would have followed you to the end of the Earth, without questioning, only for these words I believed you were capable to refund Europe, you alone. Congratulations. Of course, reality has imposed itself. I don't blame you for taking decisions that doesn't match your words. You are head and shoulders over the rest anyway._

“ Yet power is one of his many charms, as I see things. Since when are all these things you mentioned a problem. Being married? People being married have affairs, even people who love their spouses have affairs. It's complicated. What a pity we are not in the 18th Century anymore. He could have then his wife and you as _maîtresse-en-titre_. They were so civilized. But then you would have people complaining about the presidential monarchy. They complain now and nothing has happened yet. Because... nothing has happened yet?”

Galimberti's voice was once again cut short. A third aria was played then. _Addio, del passato_ , from _La Traviata_. Elena then recalled yet another unrelated piece of Spanish poetry. A poem about a dying woman like Violetta, another letter read with heartbreaking words on it.

Me rebelo a morir, pero es preciso...

¡El triste vive y el dichoso muere!

¡Cuando quise morir, Dios no lo quiso,

hoy que quiero vivir, Dios no lo quiere!

_(I revolt against death, but it's necessary_

_Wretched ones live, and the blissful dies!..._

_When I wanted to die, God didn't allow me._

_Now that I want to live, He doesn't want it.)_ (6) _  
_

“I think it's her vanity, all of this. Especially the cremation. She always said she didn't want to be buried, that the thought of her body rotting made her shudder. Anna was young back then. When both of us started our careers, that second stance was always cut. _Non lagrima o fiore avrà la mia fossa/ non cruce col nome che copra quest'ossa_ ”. She actually sang the two verses, very softly. There was something about the young Francesca there, someone completely different from herself. Regardless of her words, she was an undead goddess of music and couldn't help it. _Not tears, not flowers over my grave. Not a cross with a name will cover my bones_. Of course Violetta is realistic at that point because she's ruined and she fears she'll end in an unmarked tomb. Not for vanity but for being back to poverty. “Then conductors began to open the cuts, bless them. Too late for the two Divinas.”

The first one being Claudia Muzio, who gave a haunting performance when she was already sick and with a collapsed lung. A dying woman playing another dying woman. The second Divina, of course, it's Callas.

“Honey, I don't care about what happens with my body after my death. Cremation, burial, ending stuffed and exhibited at some museum, I don't really care. I've enjoyed life, and that's all. So my advice is, enjoy yours. If you want to part the pink sea with the president – and he wants it too – why not”

Elena wriggled on her seat. How many euphemisms for sexual intercourse – completely inadequate for a funeral - this woman knew? Should she use them if she even writes smut for Emmanuel again? It's curious how he allows himself to scold her, but she can't retaliate.

> _I hate to tell you that in your last mail you gave me some advice as useful to me as it would be making a facebook live of myself dancing naked on the top floor of the Eiffel Tower. I get you probably would enjoy the show. But it wouldn't be helpful for geopolitics. Not thinking I have the right of meddling in your singing career and when or where you take a break, I don't believe you have power over my sleeping schedule._

“But do bear in mind _”,_ Madame Girardi said “This is not the 18th Century. There are not maîtresses-en-titre, and of course he won't be divorcing and make a first lady of you. You won't marry and have many children, it doesn't work that way. Enjoy while it lasts. You could tell your grandchildren later, if you have them some day. But never leave that to interfere in your career. You don’t want to end secluded and yearning for the career you dropped down, do you?”.

A fourth aria started playing from above. The church was slowly filling. There was a little crowd of young singers of both sexes next to the northern wall. Anna's alumns, Francesca said. The new aria was from Catalani's _La Wally_ . _Ebben, ne andrò lontana_.

“ _I will go far away_ , eh?” Madame Girardi was laughing again, which caused some heads to turn and look at them. “I think I have solved the mystery. How is she went back to Venice? To make me follow of course. She knew I would be at the funeral, we always teased each other with who would live more years. It seems it's me. I am not surprised, darling. I always knew it. But then she forces me to travel to this city in spite of we both living in Paris, and at my age! Humidity is killing me, Elena. She planned this funeral only to annoy me.” 

Elena looked at her, puzzled.

“Oh, darling. I would have done the same in her place”.

And, for the first time, she started sobbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) - La Fenice means literally The Phoenix. The opera house has been repeatedly destroyed by fire, and then rebuilt; the name was precisely chosen because of that. Last fire was in 1996, with the opera reopening seven years later.  
> (2) - Bécquer, Rima LXXIII. Translation available here: http://www.poesi.as/gabrim73uk.htm  
> (3) - Adriana Lecouvreur, by Francesco Cilea. Loosely based on the life and loves of French actress Adrienne Lecouvreur (1692-1730)  
> (4)- Tu che le vanità. Depending of the version, it's from Act IV or V of Verdi's Don Carlo.  
> (5)- For those wondering, yes, there is an interview in which he says that bit.  
> (6)- Ramón de Campoamor, El Tren Expreso. There's no English translation of the poem I could find.
> 
> With all that, until next chapter!


	9. In uomini, in soldati

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which instead of discovering a haunted opera house, we meet a haunted conductor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual I recall to my readers:  
> \- This is my first fic (available online anyway)  
> \- English is not my first language. Expect several mispells, and the usual mistakes a non-native would do.  
> \- At the end of the work there are several notes, generally dedicated to the opera references. The rest are there to have fun discovering them.  
> \- That I enjoy adding "accurate" stuff now and then doesn't make less fictional and/or far from their real life equivalents my characters.

**IX**

**_In uomini, in soldati_ **

**_In uomini, in soldati, sperare fedeltà?_ **

**_Non vi fate sentir per carità!_ **

**_Di pasta simili son tutti quanti,_ **

**_le fronde mobili, l'aura inconstanti_ **

**_han più degli uomini stabilità!_ **

(In men, in soldiers, you hope for fidelity?

For pete's sake, don't let anyone hear you!

They are all made of the same dough,

windblown branches, changeable breezes

have more stability than men!

 _In uomini, in soldati_ . MOZART, _Così fan tutte_.

**2018**

**April**

> **NORMA** **_, BRUSSELS_ ** _...Yet this impersonation has rare and excelling virtues. How truly and sensitively felt was Madame Mendieta’s embodiment of the Norma of the earlier scenes – the gravely hieratic Norma of “Casta diva,” a figure lovely and gracious dignity in the moonlight of the sacred grove; how exquisite the sentiment and the tonal beauty with which she invested that ageless and ravishing apostrophe to the pale goddess! How touching and simple she was in the scenes with her children; how movingly she sang the noble melody of “Teneri figli,” one of the greatest airs in all opera; and how she conquered by the restraint (which was there most admirably fitting) of her final scene of magnanimous self-sacrifice, when she tears the sacred wreath from her forehead and declares herself the guilty one! (…)_
> 
> **UPDATE:** _Our more advised readers may have realized that this text is directly copied from another one which reviewed a performance of Bellini's_ Norma _with Rosa Ponselle in the title role in 1927. Something that_ Palcoscenico's _most loyal followers will find familiar, since one of our ex redactors had this custom. Our – no offence - less keen followers maybe have noticed that our allusions to the sacred groves and wreaths or to Norma's children made no sense at all, since this was a concert version. A third group or readers, maybe, has noticed that today is the 1_ _st_ _of April, and that none of the above can be taken seriously. We invite our readers to find the real review tomorrow and to the newspaper which copied the false one we'll say that their critic was seen on a restaurant on the other side of the street, during the interval, and that he never went back to see the second half. Maybe he should redeem himself attending to the charity gala performance of this same opera that must be held in Paris, at the Opéra Garnier._

  


“It's totally false he went there during the interval”, Carmen said after reading _Palcoscenico_ 's mock review. “Actually, he was there from the very beginning. I think he only listened to the overture. If you look at the reviews and compare the paragraphs which he didn't plagiarize, you'll see he also failed to realize that one of the singers he praises had cancelled just an hour before because he was sick”. Carmen looked disapprovingly to the screen. She had been impatient to read the reviews after the Brussel's _Norma;_ the incident of the gluttonous critic amused her, but that wasn't what she was looking for evidently. “He praises Sobinov.”

“At least this is someone he listened to”, Elena replied. She was looking through the window of the hotel room, to the streets outside.

Sobinov was the young conductor, a pupil of Gergiev. He looked like a romantic poet in the podium and liked to make a lot of exaggerated gesticulation, but judging by the quantity of his jokes during rehearsals – the first always was about his lack of any kind of family ties with the illustrious tenor of the first half of the 20th Century (1)– he didn't take all that seriously. There was one thing deeply unsettling about Sobinov, though. Once someone had told him that he looked vaguely like a blond version of the legendary and much regretted Guido Cantelli, the Italian conductor whose life and career were cut short one November night of 1956 by an airplane crash (2). It was rumored among opera singers that Sobinov had a sort of altar at his dressing room, with a photo of Cantelli surrounded by candles. When visiting him to discuss the last details before the performance in Brussels, Elena had seen the photo with her very eyes, but there were no candles, and not a hint of an altar. Only the photograph on a shelf, with a recording of Mozart's _Così fan tutte_ next to it. Cantelli's only surviving recording of an entire opera.

It was still unsettling, since the young Sobinov had switched from talking about her character's last scene to a casual comment about Cantelli's accident at Orly airport.

“Did you know that in the wreckage they found the half-burnt scores he always carried with him, the music written by his teacher Gherini? Pieces of paper survived, even if heavily damaged. But the maestro died, and other 34 individuals with him”. These other victims seemed negligible for him. As his voice darkened and his eyes closed, he went on with the details of the accident, with the precision of a forensic doctor. 

At that point, she would have preferred the stories about candles surrounding Cantelli's photograph were true. She had looked at the image of the young conductor. _Attractive, charismatic, elegant_. His magnetic eyes fixed for ever in a striking contrast of black and white. 

Elena had shuddered; it seemed impossible this Sobinov was the same man who made so many jokes during rehearsals, but there he was. Death was too present these days in her life: as predicted by herself, Girardi had died short weeks after Galimberti. Her burial had been something less spectacular than Galimberti's. To her surprise, Francesca had left something for her; the old lady's niece had sent her the little silver cross she used to carry with her as Leonora. _You really impressed her_ , the niece had written. These kind of thing wasn't infrequent. Callas had send the earrings she used to wear when she played Tosca to Caballé, but she was alive back then. 

She didn’t know what to do of that silver cross.

Even the last image she had of Emmanuel was that of the president at les Invalides during a national hommage, leaning over a coffin covered with the French flag. He wouldn't attend the charity gala that night, of course. He would be flying somewhere else. They would almost cross their paths. At the hour she would be rehearsing, he was supposed to inaugurate something at a museum nearby. _Attractive, charismatic, elegant_. The Perfume Museum, of all things. A fleeting smile crossed her lips, soon vanished at the thought of him flying that same night. A part of her was perpetually worried about him. Worried about things happening to him, worried about news that can upset him, or damage his reputation, or his popularity going down. Or... 

(She had written him about that conversation with Girardi. _He_ had answered _we are not in the 18_ _th_ _Century anymore. And you wouldn't want to end as a Du Barry, would you? Remind me to send you a good copy of Brantôme; this will probably enrich your vocabulary, among other interesting things_ )

 _What an absurdity_ , the most rational part of herself replied. _You don't have to worry constantly about him_. She reminded herself she wouldn't visit Sobinov's dressing room again if she could avoid it.

(And Brantôme was an old acquaintance, so to speak. Among the books she had inherited years ago from her grandfather, there was a translation of _Les Dames Galantes_ . Illustrated). (3)

“Do you have to listen to that music?” she stepped back from the window.

Carmen's new playlist was, once again, composed by depressing Spanish songs. The music wasn't that somber. On the contrary, it sounded more or less lively. The problem was with the lyrics. Something about someone being unfairly accused, condemned to die, abandoned by his loved one. Carmen doesn't answer, but pauses the music. She could listen later, with her customary glass of whisky.

“It's because of singing _Norma_?”

Bellini's masterpiece had a devastating effect on Elena, it was true. Otherwise than over her feet, if she didn't choose the appropriate shoes. But her shoes were comfortable enough this time. No, that wasn't the problem, the problem was that last scene with the sudden downfall of a figure until then admired by her people; that last and disperate, but successful attempt to save her children's lives. The death by fire... Elena sighed. Sometimes it was difficult, to separate the character she was singing from her personal feelings. Today she was tired of all these deaths. Even of the fictional ones.

“It's maybe because she wants to study profoundly and with detail the second title of the French constitution”, Chus said, from his chair. He was painstakingly selecting photos from the Brussels performance, editing and uploading them to Instagram. He laughed at his own joke. Among his many readings during his attempts to become a civil servant was not only the Spanish, but also the Italian and French constitutions, as two of its sources. Either because he had spoken too softly or because the women didn't get the reference, there was no reaction from them. 

It was always frustrating to make jokes about legislation (4).

***

Norma _has been traditionally cast with a soprano and a mezzo soprano as Norma and her young rival respectively. Obviously, we aren't following tradition and decided to pick a lighter soprano for Adalgisa. For the hero, so to speak, of the piece, we have a belcantist tenor rather than a heroic one. Mr Brown has been singing this roles for a while, and I appreciate the flexibility of his voice. With all the due respect for the great Polliones of the past, he doesn't sound as a_ mafioso _. Can we use that word?_ Da? _I don't want to offence certain sensibilities, you know... Well, you can edit that later if you want to... No, no, I'm not asking you to... What I meant is this opera is a great classic melodrama, the priestess caught between the love of her country and her own love, her sacrilege, her double life, the friendship between two women who survives to their rivalry, that... No, I'm not going to give my opinion about Russian politics, I don't feel authorized to, I hope you understand... Thank you very much. As I have said..._

From afar, the two sopranos watched the conductor's interview for a broadcast station specialized in classical music. Norma and Adalgisa, that is Elena Mendieta and Angelika Moser, had been interviewed before. Rehearsal had been disrupted Apparently there was no other moment to film the interview. With her first scene rehearsed, Elena's work was done for an hour or two. The conductor wanted to insist in Adalgisa and Pollione's duet. The journalist was supposed to wrap the interview, but had considered adequate to ask Sobinov about Putin. 

The two sopranos were not friends, but they always had behaved courteously to each other. Angelika, like Sobinov, spent half the time explaining that she wasn't related to any of the famous singers whose last name was Moser. Nothing to do with Edda, her musicologist father, or with Thomas. _Nothing to do with_ Kommissar Rex _'s character_ , either, she would add, to everyone's dismay. From time to time and only in Elena's presence, Angelika would make disrespectful comments about the Palais Garnier.

“No doubt it's beautiful, in that tacky Second Empire way”, she said, while Sobinov wiggled on his chair under the journalists' unwanted questions. “But I prefer the comfort of modern opera houses. This one hides a lot of dirt under its splendor. Overrated”. 

Elena was not that severe, but had to agree with the hidden decadence part. There were patches in the red tapestry, and boxes where the separation screens were barely held by wedges. Looking from the scene, though, the splendor still wins the battle. The scars of time were, like that cistern under the opera house, hidden. Even if reality was less romantic that in the novel by Gaston Leroux (the soprano thought about the musical as a not entirely acknowledged hommage to Puccini; that was all). The next Angelika would tell would be, no doubt, that if the Palais Garnier was so well known and so overrated, it was Leroux's fault. As a proof, she would point to the infamous box number 5. Seven years ago, and only then, a plate which could be read _The Phantom's Box_ had been placed on its door. _Nonsense_ , Angelika said. And then you had all these places without visibility on the upper levels. 

But Angelika seemed more interested with watching the maestro under the fire of the journalist's observations about Russia's foreign politics. “He is being very uncomfortable with all these questions”, she whispered. “He doesn't want any problem back home. I almost feel sorry for him”. 

“Oh, look, how lucky I am. Two beautiful ladies waiting for me”

Elena cringed at the voice and at the contact of the masculine hand she had to retire from her shoulder, and the same happened with Angelika. Well not exactly. After all, the Austrian soprano wasn't wearing a boat neck sweater. Instead, she had to retire the other hand from her waist. The tenor, Alan Brown, was handsome in a certain coarse way, but always took too many liberties. Who could have told it from his exquisite singing and presence onstage.

“We were not waiting for you, Alan. And the next time you put your paws on me you'll probably regret it. Did you already get the correct pronunciation of _Vieni in Roma, vieni o cara?_ ”, Angelika said. It was hard, to keep professional with Mr. Brown and his roving hands. One of the most common ways to reduce him to silence was to attack him on his, still, debatable pronunciation of Dante's language. And it worked. Sulking, the tenor stepped away from the two women, just waiting for the interview to end. 

“If he dares to put a hand on me during the rehearsal with some lame excuse, I assure you that he will sing with a black eye tonight”.

“That is if we get rid of the filming team before tonight”, Elena replied. “And besides, I am hungry”.

“Maybe you could go out and eat something. There's no reason for you to starve here, least for now. I'll send you a message the moment the maestro asks for you”.

Elena thought about it, hesitating. Was Angelika sincere? Soprano Adalgisas are often aspiring Normas, but nothing indicated that she wanted to harm her before Sobinov's eyes.

“Very well then”.

***

She had just exited the auditorium when a man stepped behind a column, startling her.

“Excuse me”, she said, not looking at him. Well dressed, with a dark suit and a dark tie. It seemed like an uniform. She walked away, heading for the exit.

“ Ah, Madame Mendieta, I was looking for you”.

She freezed on the stop, looked back at him. Dark suit, sunglasses. Grayish hair. Tilting her head, she asked:

“Have we met before?” because he looked familiar, but she didn't knew exactly when...

“Briefly, one night, next to the Grand Palais. But we weren't properly introduced I'm afraid. Alphonse”.

“Oh”.

He was unsurprised by her surprise.

“Shall I accompany you?” But he didn't point to the exit doors, but in direction to the elevators and the stairs which lead to the boxes instead. She looked around her, not because she hesitated; indeed, she was already walking towards him, knowing that his presence only could mean one thing. No, she was searching for the usual member of the staff to show up. But no one did. Was the Opera secured only because the president paying her a surprise visit? She wasn't sure that, if it was the case, that it was morally correct. Probably the entire neighbourhood had been securitized in views to the opening of the exhibit (6).

“But I thought he was going to open...”

“He did”

“And that after then he was supposed to...”

“Oh, he did, too”. Alphonse took her to one of the elevators. “He's tireless, as you may know” He pushed the button. “Unless you prefer to climb all those steps. It would be less discreet, too”. They stepped into the elevator's cabin.

“Where he is exactly?”, she asked, once the elevator's door were closed. She felt that delicious uneasiness on her reins. And the gooseflesh and the anticipation and the sweat at her hair roots. 

“In one of these zero visibility boxes of the upper levels. Very popular around St. Valentine's Day or so I am told” Alphonse looked at her “I hope you didn't expect the presidential box. Or box number 5”. She raised her hands in a denial.

As a matter of fact, the places were not only relatively popular for that, but also for their price. People who bought tickets for these boxes had to be clearly warned that they wouldn't see the scene. Depending on the box, maybe a corner from one of the seats. Plus, they were tiny. The great acoustics and discretion were the perks. And also how cheap the price was, the equivalent of a guided visit. Only that with a performance included in the lot.

(As for the so-called _presidential,_ but initially imperial box, no president used it).

“How did you know I wasn't going to refuse following you?” Elena asked.

Smilingly, Alphonse replied:

“I've experience. Look at my hair, I've almost turned white already. Twenty years at the palace and three presidencies. Four, with this one. No woman has refused after being summoned, ever. And most of them asked the same question”. He shrugged. “Yes, you always ask the same. Don't take it as an offence”.

Looking at her frown at the word _summoned_ , he added: 

“But you are the first of this presidency, so I think congratulations are _de rigeur_ , Madame. The setting, too, is relatively infrequent”. The elevator stopped, the doors opened. He stepped outside before she did, looking at the deserted hallway. “I thought this would never arrive, that he was a kind of rock standing immobile against the winds and storm, but he's made of flesh like all the others, I guess.” His indulgence or sympathy for human flaws seemed infinite. He had seen too many of them.

“A rock standing immobile... Very funny all together, as is the fact you are named Alphonse. It's almost Alfonso, it reminds me of something. _Come scoglio immoto resta_...”.

“It's my name, Madame”

“No doubt, but life enjoys playing jokes with me. And Mozart or Da Ponte enjoyed them too”.

They had arrived almost to the extreme of the hallway. 

“I'll wait for you here, Madame. In case you need me”, Alphonse said, opening the box's door.

She entered the tiny space, already invaded by _his_ smell, mixed with something else. Maybe was the smell of decadence the opera house exuded. It was true the acoustics were perfect, the rehearsal at last has restarted and the musical introduction of Adalgisa and Pollione's scene arrived to her ears with perfect clarity. Like so many boxes at the Opéra, this one had a tiny piece preceding to the seats, separated by curtains. A diminutive piece which often contained a little table or an equally miniature daybed.

He must had been standing next to the door, because for the second time this day, there was the hand of a man on her bare shoulders. Only that she welcomed the fingers that were now caressing her skin, and the voice that whispered next to her neck, and the lips that followed:

“Congratulations on your next _Armida_ ”, he said when Elena turned to look back at him.

She almost laughed. Yes, the Pesaro festival has casted her as Armida. Why always Rossini as a pickup phrase, it was a mystery, she said to herself as, like happened more than fourteen years before, she reached for his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1)- Leonid Sobinov (1872-1934). Even if he was a favorite of the Imperial court, his career and his fame continued during the Soviet era.  
> (2)- Guido Cantelli was Toscanini's favorite pupil and a rising star, freshly named music director of Milan's La Scala when he died on a plane crash in Paris. His death was hidden from Toscanini, who died shortly after, never knowing the fate of his young heir apparent.  
> (3)- One thing about Les Dames Galantes: is definitely NSFW, especially if it's illustrated.  
> (4)- Title II of the French Constitution of 1958 is dedicated to the President. What did you expect?  
> (5)- Alphonse is entirely fictional and it's there only to accompany our soprano and make a joke with Don Alfonso, Così fan tutte's character.  
> (6)- In case you are wondering, yes the Perfume Museum is very near to the Palais Garnier
> 
> ... Aaand this is all for this week I think. As usual, feel free to comment or critizise. Until next chapter.


	10. D'un feu doux et brûlant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of the effects embroided initials can have in human behaviour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the tenth chapter of this my first fic in my non-first language. At this stage is, to use an expression coming from the operatic (-istic?) world, almost a leitmotiv to say that:  
> \- You'll find some mispelling and gramatical errors, and I apologize.  
> \- In the final notes you'll find some references.  
> \- But not all the references are in the final notes.  
> \- Have fun with my trip to fictional hell (so to speak, but it's good enough, they have cookies).  
> Not customary at this stage:  
> \- This chapter or rather part of it may appeal to your dirty imagination and I don't apologize.  
> \- Since there's nothing explicit I didn't change the rating. You and your dirty imagination will have to do the rest.

**X**

**_D'un feu doux et brûlant_ **

**_Ô Dieu! de quelle ivresse_ **

**_Embrases tu mon âme!_ **

**_Comme un concert divin_ **

**_Ta voix m'a pénétré!_ **

**_D'un feu doux et brûlant_ **

**_Mon être est dévoré;_ **

**_Tes regards dans les miens_ **

**_ont épanché leur flamme,_ **

**_Comme des astres radieux_ **

**_Et je sens, ô ma bien aimée,_ **

**_Passer ton haleine embaumée_ **

**_Sur mes lèvres et sur mes yeux_ **

( _Oh God with what intoxication_

_you have set my soul on fire!_

_Like a divine concert_

_your voice penetrated me_

_With a sweet and burning fire_

_my whole being is devoured;_

_your eyes poured their fire into mine_

_like radiant starts._ )

_Ô Dieu! de quelle ivresse._ OFFENBACH _, Les Contes d'Hoffmann_

Garnier had said - or so Emmanuel recalls - that the choice of red and gold for his opera house - instead of the blue, gold and white which adorned the former Académie Impériale from the Rue Peletier – was due to his insistence on surrounding the spectators with an appearance of freshness and health. And in his opinion, this only could be achieved by the red tapestry, which produced a curious effect on women's skin (1). His choice of the box for this encounter, however, had started as practical; she was there rehearsing, and that was all, even if this place had all the vanished grandeur of the Second Empire. But gazing at her again, as she reclined half-dressed on the daybed – narrow as it was, it has required certain dexterity to not end on the floor – he has to recognize the aesthetic aspects of his pick as dating place. She looks like a woman in one of the paintings of Delacroix or Chasseriau. _The woman on the white socks_ , that's it. She reminds him of her, even if Elena isn't wearing any socks right now, white or of any other color, and her skirt is now partially covering her legs. There's also the temptation of leaning down over her again and forget what awaits him outside this box with its faded red tapestry, but they don't have the time. And, if the reflection of the tapestry gives the impression her entire body - and not only her cheeks - is blushing, from the tip of her toes to the root of her disheveled hair, it's evident she feels no shame. And why she should, on the other hand. She's not the married one, can do what she wants. Except now, when she has to return to the stage and to her rehearsal.

They have been fortunate; although not as perfectionist as Rinaldi, Sobinov is particular about details, in spite of all the jokes he's been no doubt telling. Unlike the music, which has been interrupted constantly in order to repeat the scene. This has given them some time that, otherwise, they wouldn't have.

And what about him, does he feel shame? Repentant, he's not, at least right now. He can't pretend he didn't summon her, that's the word Alphonse uses, and it's the adequate one, with the purpose of answering at last the question. What would have happened if he had stayed years ago in that hotel room. No doubt the same, in a less glamorous but more comfortable setting. He has wanted it; he has decided to surrender to her there, at least partially. What happens from now on, it's a totally different matter but he must face the consequences. 

When he was a teenager, he had loved a girl, just before Brigitte. She was of his age, pretty and blonde; she had even met his parents. He had written letters to that girl. He had felt so intoxicated that a car had hit him one evening, when he was returning home after visiting her (2). Then the next year Brigitte had arrived; that was the kind of love that conquers all obstacles, the kind of indestructible bond that could survive everything. And then there's Elena, the one who made the wall of his legendary fidelity – now can be called legendary, since no longer exists – tremble and finally, fall. Is this the kind of doomed love she always sings about? He still doesn't _really_ knows. What it's clear is this is more than a simple fling. He wouldn't have bothered if it was. He's not _that_ frivolous.

He would tell her, as promised. At least if his fidelity is not longer immaculate, he'll be loyal to her, whatever happens. Because his feelings, his love, are still intact right now. Only that there are feelings and love for other individual too. It's going to require more than his proverbial _at the same time_ to solve the situation in which he has willingly put himself. The three of them, actually. And, _unfortunately_ , the 21th Century is more conservative in this aspect than the 18th.

(It's ironical and unwelcome how the music coming from the stage tells the story of that Roman proconsul who decides he's tired of the mother of his children and pretends to leave her for someone younger) 

“I'm sorry about the meal”, he says then. His plan didn't include other human needs like food. Luckily for her she carries these chocolate bar things in her handbag. She can manage, she argues. It's true that he something forgets he has to eat, and that she seems more pragmatic in this kind of situation. Caring about not starving or about contraception.

In this aspect it's clear that, of the two, she's the less likely to improvise. 

She moves at last, stretching her legs to put on her black thights. Something practical and warm, like all her underwear. “If I had known, I had put something special”, she had said playfully earlier, when he had unfastened her bra. One of these strapless black things she uses for off the shoulder tops and boatneck sweaters. Elena doesn't really appreciate “special” underwear which she thinks uncomfortable. But for him, she says to herself as he picks his white shirt from the floor, she would make the effort. Gladly. 

But on the other hand _he_ doesn't need that much to look provocative to her eyes. His mere existence is a constant provocation.

There's the way in which his muscles flex under the blue fabric of his trousers. The way in which he tries – successfully! - to put his hair in a decent state again. The way in which he laces his shoes. He puts his foot unceremoniously on the daybed in order to do this, while his lover – a smirk crosses her lips at this thought – yes, his lover, enjoys the view.

The white shirt with his initials embroidered near his belt, when there's a belt which is not the case right now. His initials there, or rather _their_ initials almost touching his ribs. It's like he's showing his underwear every time he takes off his jacket. After their first kiss, or rather the second they share in their lives, this little detail had excited her. Her fingers had caressed” the two little embroidered letters and felt the warmth of the skin beneath, just before she started to unbutton that piece of fabric that separated her from his body. As for the belt, the soprano finds it laying near the curtain which separates the tiny ante-room – so to speak- from the seats and hands it to him in exchange of her bra. She jumps on her feet and turns her back on him, so he can fasten it. This is something Elena can do with one hand and her eyes closed while jumping on one leg if needed, but she wants to feel his fingers on her back again. And she feels them, slightly shuddering. She profits of the moment to lean against him, going almost limp for a second or two. Her head sinks back on his shoulder, where his usual smell of Eau Sauvage has mixed with her own. 

“I am afraid this doesn't resemble what you wrote that time”, he profits of the moment for the joke. It's true they haven't talked that much today. Just being busy with, er, other things.

Raising her lashes slowly and with a sigh of contentment she replies (or rather purrs):

“Oh, but this is better, because it's _real_ ”. 

Her hands also tremble a little when – even if it's something he could do with his eyes closed and jumping on one leg - she slides his belt through the loops, fastening the buckle. She would hook her fingers through the belt loops and retain him for hours, but even the master of clocks can't dispose freely of his time. And hers is even more limited, she thinks as her head emerges from her boatneck sweater. She pulls at her sleeves, trying to make it relatively presentable. She puts her hair up again: there's that stupid carve hair fork adorned with a swan, a souvenir from the one and only time she sang Elsa or anything by Wagner (3).

Meanwhile, she watches how Emmanuel ties his tie. A perfect knot. There's something obscene in the way he slides his hand through the dark silk afterwards. Then he puts on his jacket and hides from her view these two initials they share.

How he manages, she wonders, to look practically impecable even now.

A constant provocation indeed. Insufferable, isn't it?

***

He's the first to leave, of course. He must be back in the palace, and then on board the presidential plane. A kiss and he's gone, with the tacit promise of future, less improvised encounters in more comfortable places. She doesn't know how they are going to manage, with their respective schedules and all that, but she awaits the next with impatience. She opens the curtains giving to the seats, but doesn't venture there. Instead she remains on the daybed. 

“ _Where_ are you? You have ten minutes” Angelika's message flashes on the screen of her phone. She puts the damned thing back on her handbag and she's going to call for Alphonse – because she knows he's back there – when she notices something on the floor. It's one of Emmanuel's cufflinks, a tricolor one, which makes her smile. In a gesture she later will find childish, she kisses it. She would give it back to him, the next time. 

“Madame?” it's Alphonse of course, delicately calling for her. She opens the door, stepping on the hallway. For a moment she wonders if he has been at the other side of the wooden door the whole time, _listening_. Promptly discarding the thought, she follows him back to the elevator. Looking at herself in the mirror, she discovers her hair is still a mess. She tries to fix it better, but will have to visit the restroom and use more hairpins. She's sure there are still three or four in her wallet, of all places. Meanwhile, Alphonse is looking for something stuck inside his jacket, or so it seems. Finally he finds it. A little white card, with a telephone number on it. No name, no indication of any sort.

“It's my number”, he presses to say. “Now you are disappointed it's not his, Madame, but this one will be more useful for you and safer for him. Imagine you lose your phone or someone steals it; the President's private number would be all over the Internet the second after. And we don't want it, do we?” She whispers “No”, and takes the card from his hand. Elena wonders if this is a sort of protocol in case of adultery. The FAQs of presidential dating. A series of measures dedicated to avoid damage, like the ones the security retail would follow in case of an attack. Protect the president, either from bullets or from indiscretions. If they only knew the kind of content they have already shared, and that no doubt makes interesting reading material. 

“Now, for anything you may need, you can call me, Madame. This is an indirect channel I know, but it's safe”. The elevator's doors opened. “Or almost”. 

“What means _almost_?”

“It means being photographed on your scooter while making certain visits”.

“Oh”.

“It also means to be missing certain night of the 31th of August”. 

Elena needs a few seconds to realize he's talking about Chirac's _absence_ the night of Princess Diana's fatal accident (4). Was she a princess anymore by then? She's not sure. In certain moments she really misses Chus. He would be useful right now solving her doubts about British royalty. But having him near would have been _awkward_ today. Certain things were better out of her Instagram account, even if she wouldn't mind to have a copy of...

“How many calls you use to receive?”, she asks out of curiosity and to distract her thoughts.

Alphonse's eyebrows raise, like this was an unexpected question. For the first time he looks at her directly, drawing down his sunglasses. His eyes are green – which seems adequate in someone who indirectly helps to feed the proverbial monster -, indulgent and tired. 

“Depending on how persistent you can be”. Presidents? Their lovers? All of them? Before she can open her mouth, Alphonse answers with a certain amount of exasperation “ _This one_ is _very_ persistent. As you may know”.

  
  
  
  


***

When later that night's gala dinner was held at the Palais Garnier, the tables were disposed at the Grand Foyer, with its architecture so reminiscent of the Hall of Mirrors. But it was not the only space where said tables were disposed, and, she was sitting at the ante-foyer, with its ceiling adorned with mosaics. Her table was precisely there. It was maybe not that spectacular as the next piece or grandiose like the Great Stairs, which were adorned with flowers. She could smell them from her chair. And then there were the mosaics. The architect had included twice an inscription in Greek characters about the democratization of the venerable art of placing _tesserae_. Of course his own name with those of Curzon, the painter who created the original designs of famous couples from classic mythology and the mosaicist Facchina were cited in the inscription. Diana, Euridice, Psyche and Aurora, all of them appeared with their lovers. 

The democratization, or popularization of mosaics was debatable, Elena thought looking up at the arabesques that isolated the mythological figures – the women were dressed, the men were not – even if it was clear that everyone who could enter the opera could admire them. She profited of a moment of calm after being congratulated by several guests to the dinner; some of them were famous, other were prestigious in their fields but unknown to the great public, other were just rich or had a name aristocratically enough. All sharing the condition of being members of an association which contributed to the opera's prestige. 

Elena had been introduced to several of them, receiving their compliments while thinking about other things. Never had Norma's prayer to the Moon sounded so unchaste as she – now properly dressed for a gala and after a rehearsal, a shower and a nap, but no proper meal – had sung it today. Since the supposedly chaste priestess is hiding her double life it didn't seem so inadequate. But her Norma had sounded a bit too sensual and even bordering in vulgar in certain moments. If the Gallic priestess ends at the stake, she was burning in another kind of fire, sweet and insufferable.

She had to remember it was better not to voice that last thought. Besides, no call could bring him right now at her side, or erase the suspicion of her _comrades_ , as that syndicalist from the orchestra would say, when she went back to the rehearsal, a blush in her cheeks and her hair hastily _fixed_.

  
  


At her entrance several members of the chorus mockingly sang “ _Norma viene_...” and two members of the orchestra, two precisely, joined in the fanfare. She had decided to ignore them like an empress would ignore a grain of salt. The way in which she eat one of the chocolate bars she had in her purse had been everything save imperial, though.

“So you are still hungry I see”, Angelika had said amused. 

“Always”, Elena had replied, licking her lips to erase the last traces of chocolate.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Believe it or not, it seems to be one of the reasons why they picked red.  
> (2) The anecdote about the car and the girl appears in an article about Macron and another of Hollande's ministers, Najat Vallaud-Belkacem published on Vanity Fair, April 24 2017. The printed version had appeared two months before.  
> (3) Elsa von Brabant, main female character on Wagner's Lohengrin and total wedding crasher. I mean she crashes her own wedding night. Not in a Lucia di Lammermoor level, though.  
> (4) There are a lot of rumours about where the president was spending that night.
> 
> That's all I think. Feel free to comment, etc etc. And until next chapter!


	11. Hab' mir's gelobt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of living with an historical figure a.k.a the one with practically no opera references

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I beg my readers to forgive me for every single mispell, gramatical blunder, etc, etc. English, as you know, is not my first language.  
> And second, remember that this is a fictional story. Based on real and living people, of course. The characters on this fanfic have little resemblance with the real ones BUT I like to add "real" details.

**XI**

**_Hab' mir's gelobt_ **

**2018**

**April**

_Hab' mir's gelobt,_

_ihn lieb zu haben in der richtigen Weis',_

_daß ich selbst sein Lieb' zu einer andern_

_noch lieb hab! Hab' mir freilich nicht gedacht,_

_daß es so bald mir auferlegt sollt' werden!_

(I chose to love him in the right way,

so that I would love even his love for another!

I truly didn't believe

that I would have to bear it so soon!)

_Hab' mir's gelobt_ , STRAUSS, _Der Rosenkavalier_

  
  


On hindsight, he now recognized it had been a mistake. She had warned him against it, partly because the idea came from the clan of the _mormons_ . But he had finally accepted to be interviewed by these two guys. The interview had turned into a rude debate, almost as rude as the one against Marine le Pen last year. Internally exasperated, he had repelled every single attack without giving the impression of losing his temper. He had looked calm and positively glamorous, with the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the background as night fell. Polite but verbally implacable, he had mastered the scene. So obviously superior became in certain moments that it bordered humiliation for them. It was sad, however, that the whole thing had turned into a dick measurement contest. Not that he feared debate; on the contrary he was extremely good at confrontation and to certain extent he enjoyed it. But where did ideas or positive outcomes of that interview went? Something that people really cared about? There were none.

Just a battle of egos her husband won.

She had refrained herself from saying _I told you_. There were a lot of things in which she refrained herself lately. People enjoyed guessing who she was exactly, if just a first lady – how many times she would be remembered of how this title didn't exist in France – wanting at all costs her husband's success or a sort of Lady Macbeth who pushed him to satisfy her own ambitions. As if a woman didn't have other options between being an ornament or a cold-blooded murderer. The case is, if even Emmanuel didn't want her in seclusion and had made very clear she wouldn't be left behind, protocol often left her aside. It was the case with the protocol to welcome a foreign leader and his wife at the White House. Brigitte was reading it on the plane that took them to Washington, not happy at the thought she and Melania would be together in an aisle, with their places marked, doing virtually nothing. How did Melania manage? She had told her, when the Trumps had visited Paris last year, that she couldn't even open a window at the White House. Imagine that.

But no, saying _I told you_ wasn't the _main_ thing she had been refraining herself from doing. 

The plane suddenly shaked. Not heavily, but enough for her to look for a solid thing to grasp. It's more easy when sitting at the table, which is always busy, or at the seats. Now she's sitting on the bed, while the plane flies over the ocean. It was quite a comfortable bed. The Airbus A330, which had been a conventional one until it was bought under Sarkozy's presidence, had a bedroom, a bureau, a meeting room and even a shower. People had nicknamed it _Air Sarko One_ , a mocking allusion to the Air Force One. The sobriquet had changed under the next two presidents. Hollande had wanted to buy a new plane (which was logical, giving his experience with the airplane the first day of his presidency), but nothing had been done; it was then Emmanuel's task to renovate the fleet. But then another controversy about the costs of an official visit of the Prime Minister had broken up and he had been forced to save for later the idea of having a brand new _Air Macron_.

So many controversies that it was getting tiresome. At the beginning of Emmanuel's presidency, as she had told to Melania, she used to go into the Metro, almost incognito. It was enough with a pair of sunglasses and a knitted cap. Then, as every single French president, his popularity plummeted, people started to sign petitions against her – a guy had even created one against her miniskirts, go figure – and her incursions in the Metro became less frequent.

This is why they didn't need another controversy. Like that of his infidelity, example given.

  


_It was a Saturday at La Lanterne when he had told her. One of these days in which they went for a walk on the Park of Versailles._ Nemo _was with them. She recalled to have picked a grass leaf from his nose, just after they returned from a walk._ Nemo _, who had learnt to hold the leash in his mouth when he wanted to go outside. As they sat at the gardens of la Lanterne looking how the dog played and rolled in front of them, he had, at last, pronounced the words she had feared since that evening in which, before going into this same plane, he had returned from that exposition smelling of another woman. He had taken a shower, of course, and erased that smell from his skin. She didn't ask the question. He had decided not to tell her that day. But it was obvious to Brigitte. She could read it in his eyes,_

_From a certain point of view, it was better that way. Emmanuel telling her about his infidelity, the same day he had been in other woman's arms, would have been painful for her. It was painful right now, it will be always painful. But at least with several days in between she had time to meditate about the fact. It also gave her time enough for shedding tears._

“ _So it's true”, she had said, when he had told her that they needed to talk. Such commonplace words seemed so unlikely of him. But being with another woman was also unlikely, profoundly and utterly unlikely of him. That red line was crossed now and two decades of fidelity were gone._

“ _Yes, it's true”, he said with a whisper. Without hesitation, but looking at her eyes. She noticed her husband was bracing himself not against her wrath but against her sorrow instead. “The day the exposition was opened”._

_She thought she had shed tears enough these days but felt a bubble inside her throat and her eyes filled. She blinked back tears. Her husband swallowed and waited, maybe for a typical “How could you” or “What does she have that I don't”, or “You must choose between the two of us”. Or even “I want to divorce”. But no, she would never ask for divorce. She tried another angle:_

“ _Are you telling me that you have had sex with a woman who, correct me if I'm wrong, you have seen ten times in your life? A woman you don't really know, and that it's ambitious and no doubt in search of more notoriety?”_

“ _As a matter of fact, she is probably more famous than I am... And you know I wouldn't bother if it was only sex ”. On a conversation of this kind, normally people having an affair would have stressed how little their lovers meant for them. But not him of course. She always thought with a sort of fatalism that, when the moment arrived, she would felt less bad if it was love, and not just physical attraction, what could lead him to commit adultery. That he wouldn't jeopardy all only in search of physical satisfaction._

_But it hurt. Anyway, it hurt. She had made him promise he would tell her if something happened. He was loyal to his promise. But it hurt._

“ _Oh, Emmanuel, don't be so naif. Opera singers are not_ that _famous, whereas you are definitely known in countries which don't know opera exist. What does she want, seriously. Does she fancy you'll leave me and put a ring on her finger? Imagine that! BFMTV would be overjoyed, they would livestream our divorce, your proposal and your wedding. And, oh, the birth of your children. And meanwhile they would tear you to shreds” she laughed, incontrolably at first, until her laughter turned into a bawl. She could see him, pale and horrified at the scene, with that look he had when, involuntarily, he hurted someone. He surrounded her shoulders with his arm as she cried clinging to him._

_Sitting on the grass,_ Nemo _had stopped playing and looked at them, puzzled._

A second lurch, stronger this time. It coincided with Emmanuel's entering the room, visibly tired. He sat on the bed and offered her his hand, which she squeezed until the presidential plane left behind the turbulence. Her fingers became loose then, but she still didn't release her husband's hand.

“You should take a nap at least”. It was almost a leitmotiv.

“Wish granted”, he replied, kicking out his shoes and laying on the bed. On board the plane, he had changed into a more comfortable outfit than his usual suit: jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. He closed his eyes. Without his makeup, the dark circles under his eyes became more evident, and since he was losing weight, his profile looked sharper, cheekbones and nose prominent, like... like the flying buttresses of a gothic cathedral. She lied on the bed besides him. He was so exhausted he fell asleep almost immediately.

She, the other, would never see him like this. The opera singer only could have brief moments, brief hours maybe. She would have to choose between him and her career, and Brigitte was sure she wouldn't dump her career. People, these same people who tried to guess if she was just a submissive and loving wife or the president's bad genius couldn't understand. They couldn't understand the complexity of life, the solidity of their bond. Jealous she was, of course. Angry? Not anymore. She had decided to love him with all his qualities and his flaws.

On the other hand, she had come to terms with sharing him. Not with Elena – she forced herself to think about the other woman as a human being, maybe with redeemable qualities too – or any other woman. Not with the _mormons_ that seemed obsessed with him, in a very weird way. But with France, or actually with the entire world. She often had said in the past, half joking, that it wasn't easy to live with Joan of Arc. Because sometimes he gave this impression. A man on a mission, who seemed to know where he was going, even if the rest of the universe didn't know and was skeptical, or amused, or simply hostile. 

Maybe it was exaggerated. But he was actually on the same domain than Joan now. The domain of historical figures. It was amusing, but he was now a historical figure. His name would be in the long list of French leaders, one that started with monarchs and ended in the presidents of the Fifth Republic – which, for certain people, acted like monarchs -; either as a footnote or an extended episode – the story of his presidency was yet to be written, and still, whether he was elected for a second time or not, he would aspire to something more later (the European Commision? Very probable. Being one of the Immortals? Oh, he would try. – he would be in History books.

There was something terrifying about that.

So, if she had learnt to share him with France, the world and even History, what did Elena Mendieta matter after all. A little grain of salt, not enough to disturb the perfectly oiled mechanism of their marriage. A forgivable flaw, it it was conducted discreetly enough.

_Long minutes passed until she recovered her calm. His arm was still around her shoulders, trembling and undecise._ Nemo _had decided to join them and was just lying in front of the presidential couple. He had again a leaf of grass on his nose. It was Emmanuel who picked it now._

_She had made her decision._

“ _I am thankful for your sincerity. Really thankful” she repeated these words, as Emmanuel seemed genuinely surprised at her words. “And of course I forgive you. Probably it's out of question to ask you to never see that woman again”_

“ _It is.” He took a deep breath, and a painful silence followed._

“ _What worries me is what will happen, when this will go public. No, don't promise you'll be discreet. Absolutely everything becomes known sooner or later. I don't fear humiliation, we have lived with that before”..._

_And how useful it was, to survive to the cruelty of the political world. Emmanuel had known how to move among the wolves from the times he was an investment banker. That was an implacable world, but with something that had certain resemblance with an honor code. In politics, there was no honor and no code. Sometimes she was pretty scared of it, sometimes she felt she was the harsher one in their couple._

“ _You have your liberty, and not exactly my blessing, but I'll give you the time to guess what that woman means for you.”_

So she had decided to turn a blind eye, feeling a sort of satisfaction in her magnanimity. With time, he would be entirely hers again, and, on hindsight, he would recognize his relationship with the soprano had been a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice that the Immortals aren't a super secret group, but the sobriquet given to the members of the French Academy instead. You get a fancy uniform and a sword with entering the club. Three presidents have belonged to the Académie: Poincaré, Deschanel and Giscard d'Estaign.  
> This part was complicate to write, but it was necessary and inevitable. I rest unconvinced by it but this is the best version I could come with. I didn't want to make "my" Brigitte unsympathetic. I didn't know if I succeeded.  
> With that, until next chapter.  
> Also, do yourself a favor and listen to the piece of music that gives its name to this chapter (just search for it). It's one of these things so beautiful than can hurt you.


	12. The only saviors are the ham sandwiches and hot coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the perils of cooling air and boxing Prime Ministers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your customary reminder about English not being my first language, this story merely fictional but with several "accurate" facts throw in now and then.  
> Also, if you are a little lost with opera references, there are some notes at the end of the chapter!

**XII**

**_The only saviors are the ham sandwiches and hot coffee_ **

  


_The only saviors_

_are the ham sandwiches_

_and hot coffee._

_We've got an informal betting pool going._

_Everybody puts in a dollar--_

_whoever guesses the explosive yield_

_is a rich man._

ADAMS _, Doctor Atomic_ (1) _  
_

**_June_ **

  
  


Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada, wasn't in a good mood. It could be told from the way his fists were hitting the punch bag, even if he was polite enough to not swear every time this happened. Even if, in his mind, a voice was whispering all kind of blasphemies, they would never make their way to his tongue. But this didn't help him to imagine certain individual as the receiving end of his coups. It was better that way, it wouldn't be very polite to throw an uppercut to one of his guests for the G7 summit. Especially if he was the President of the United States. So he kept punching the damned thing, so when the moment of having Trump before him arrived again, he was perfectly in control. 

“Oh look. He has answered”, an annoyed voice said just behind him. The same annoyed voice that then read:

“ _Please tell Prime Minister Trudeau and President Macron that they are charging the U.S. massive tariffs and create non-monetary barriers. The EU trade surplus with the U.S. is $151 Billion, and Canada keeps our farmers and others out. Look forward to seeing them tomorrow.”_ (2) _  
_

Justin wasn't sure if he had heard correctly when the said voice, who belonged to Emmanuel Macron, President of the French Republic, added something of the style of _Quelle andouille ce type, putain de bordel de merde_ before hitting his own punch bag, so decided to act as if he hadn't. It was not like him didn't feel the same. He had invited his French counterpart to visit his boxing room and thus use these gloves he had given him as a present, when he had visited Paris last April (the right glove, blue and white, had a giant Gallic rooster, the Eiffel tower, the map of France, all with assorted fleur-de-lys; the second one, in red, had Canadian landmarks and maple leafs, and of course another map, that of Canada) (3). He had laughed and accepted. 

“But no fight between us”, the Canadian had said, half joking.

“Of course. As I've said often to Edouard, it wouldn't be adequate that the President and the Prime Minister hurt each other”. 

Edouard Philippe, the French Prime Minister. Another boxing aficionado. His true French counterpart, Justin thought. It was often forgotten – even if not by him – how if he was the Chief of the Government, he was a Head of State. Just like the Queen, or any European monarchy. Most presidents in Europe had a symbolic function. Just like monarchs. Not France's. They had also the possibility of asking for something called Special Powers that sounded scary, if one thought about it. But he, the man who had a nuclear code and could ask for “special powers” looked funny right now, with his damp hair, his Olympique de Marseille's kit and the aforementioned gloves. Is not that he was looking very regal either, but people had familiarize themselves with his _unexpected_ – but actually calculated- appearances running, or rowing. Watching a French president in this garb was – maybe - more infrequent. 

“I'll tell you what Donald is going to do”, he said, with a last punch of the blue glove. “He will sulk, he will do or say something really stupid, he will break all the protocol he will be the real protagonist of all this summit. We'll be reduced to be hypocritically commiserated by some host of an American late show”. He took off his gloves, and placed them carefully on a bench. He was right. He was right of course, that little insufferable know-it-all. That was also an impolite thought, Justin said to himself as he joined Emmanuel at the bench, but there was a kind of fondness in that way of seeing him. As one would have for a little brother. Or a very dear friend.

But they were world leaders. Politicians. There was no friendship. Only interests. It was better if you forgot you had a heart. Otherwise, things became unbearable. Of course you could show yourself as someone approachable or friendly. But it was another way of survival.

Did he have the same feelings for him? Saw him as a friend, as an older brother? A... kind-friendly version of himself? (someone had written that, he had read it with his very eyes) Justin didn't really know. The man had a personality one would call sunny, even if he came from Northern France and had a British great grandfather or something like that. He even had said “Donald”, instead of the President, or Mr. Trump. He also used _Donald_ when he was in that orange guy's presence. In French he switched easily from a formal vous to tu, like he was a longtime friend. Some people appreciated it, some people found it weird. But anyway, there was that part of him always elusive. These stories about him having a core of steel. As if that was a flaw.

Politics. It's better if you forget you have a heart. He had to remind himself that bit often. Had Emmanuel to do the same? Or he had harshened enough?

Earlier that day, they had held a press conference in which they showed a curious coordination. His visit previous to the summit – including these photos at the lakeside – had been a source of comments. The usual kind. He probably had enjoyed best the visit to the library. He loved books, it was widely known. He read every day, in spite of his chaotical schedule. What was he reading now? A matter of mere curiosity. _Verdi's letters to Ricordi_ , the French president had answered. A very dear friend – he had smiled - had recommended it. 

“You should read what he wrote about France. When the Franco-Prussian war ended. He also said that a great war would happen, sooner or later. Fortunately enough he died when nis prophecy was still unfulfilled”. He then had quoted that fragment about France giving liberty to the world and how its fall seemed to mean the fall of Europe, too. Or maybe he was referring to Italy. Verdi, not the president. Justin wasn't sure. He didn't remember the quote, and didn't dare to ask about it again. But he had sounded glum.

  


_Better if you forget you have a heart_ , his brain insisted. 

“We'll have to work hard if we want him signing the conclusions”

“That's the problem, these times. Remind me there will no final conclusions next year”.

France would be hosting the summit in 2019. Biarritz, Emmanuel had said. Next to the Spanish border. Great food, he had added. 

“What about the Italian? He's likely to align himself with Trump”.

The French president said something under his breath. Ah yes the Italians and their weird coalition. The new Prime Minister seemed to be perpetually annoyed at his own Government. Especially that Salvini guy. Justin looked furtively at his profile. The jaw was firmly closed, as if he expected to be hit at some point.

“We'll try to make him understand”, he said finally. And looked at the void. Maybe thinking about the perspective of a sleepless night drinking too much coffee and eating sandwiches, trying to convince a foreign leader to join their side. 

It was then when something he would later find curious happen. Justin put on the radio. Just to break the silence that followed. He didn't know why, but the automatic search stopped on one of these broadcast stations dedicated to classical music. He saw how Emmanuel leaned in the bench. It reminded him of their first G20 in Hamburg, when he had made the same gesture during Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. But the music they were listening to now was not by Beethoven. It was Puccini's _Madama Butterfly_ , to be exact. And the soprano was having a bad time. Justin's first impulse was to search for another broadcast station, but Emmanuel's hand – a very powerful hand it was, one had to recognize it – stopped him. 

He looked as pale as death, but still wanted to listen to that. The soprano was struggling with her voice, evidently had a cold or something like that. The poor woman, she was only in her way through the ending of Act II. Some of her high notes came out as shrieks. 

“She won't make it”, he heard Emmanuel say. He seemed horrified. _Why?_

Act II of _Madama Butterfly_ from, he heard the presenter say, San Francisco, ended. The curtain fell on a very lukewarm public. Some encouraging applause and isolated booing – in an Italian opera house, it would be the opposite – but mostly cold indifference greeted the soprano – Madame Mendieta, who had agree to sing even if she was sick – at the curtain call. Would she sing the next and last act?

“ _Putain de bordel de merde”,_ the French president said for the second time that day. But in a very different tone than the first one.

Yes, definitely. It was better to forget you had a heart.

  


***

The week of the catastrophe had started well enough for Elena. She had slept well, had a quite enjoyable dream and arrived to the rehearsals on time. Everyone was nice, the conductor was helpful, the director full of interesting ideas that didn't interfere with the singers. She hadn't say anything that could spark a controversy. Everything was under control or so she thought, and Carmen didn't know about that cufflink hidden inside her handbag. Which was curious enough, to carry that with her. After all she didn't believe in lucky charms. But she liked to touch it now and then, since she couldn't touch its owner.It was complicated, with their mutual schedules. Again, how childlish of her, to caress that inanimate thing, but she couldn't help it. 

So, if everything had started well enough... Then, why did everything go downhill from there?

Laryngitis. A little voice inside her head only blamed herself for excessive air-conditioning at her room and not being careful enough. The other part of herself was too busy weeping at her own impotence, that night in her dressing room, during the interval. She had asked desperately for a shot of cortisone to ease the inflammation of her throat, which Carmen disapproved. While her manager tried to make her reason – Elena arguing, with her suddenly hoarse voice, that she _really really_ _needed_ that shot - her tears became incontrolable. It was fortunate that her make up was waterproof. Before the curtain rised, an announcement had been made. She was sick, she had agreed to sing, she asked for the public's indulgence. An old trick to stir their compassion. 

“My dear, you should step out the performance. There's an understudy, she's payed for that. Don't' be so proud”

_Don't be so proud_ . For her who was currently playing a character who ultimately follows her father's path and dies with honor because there's no way to live a dishonored life. And because everything is taken away from her. Family, love, her child. _Con onor muore chi non può serbar vita con onore_ (4). _Don't be proud_ . She had managed to get through Act I, but it was a constant fight. Certain singers used to speak of their voices as if they were a separated being from themselves. _The Voice was good tonight. The Voice is not behaving. The Voice has left_ . Elena wasn't fond of talking like that about herself but one had to admit that The Voice was being... difficult. And that she asked for a quick remedy. This is was she kept asking for her cortisone shot. For something that could help her to survive this night. Carmen's numantine resistance to her using steroids wasn't new. As a matter of fact, was encomiable, since too many opera singers used them indiscriminately to sing over their colds and flues. But she wasn't one of them, she could control herself. _She only needed that shot_ , argued one more time. Carmen didn't seem to surrender, calling for the doctor.

“You can't go on”, she said one more time. “And anyway no miraculous solution can be found now. The public will understand. As I said, you have an understudy. She will sing the final act for you”.

No they wouldn't understand, Elena thought, _they wouldn't_. She literally crumbled on her chair, in an involuntary comical imitation of a disperate belcantist heroine. The opera house's doctor appeared in the dressing room, examined her throat. She had the faint hope of him using one of these magical sprays with her. She had heard stories about warm oil being spilled through singers' throats. Quietly, tears still bordering her lashes, she awaited for the verdict.

“There's no way you can go on singing today, Madame”. His breath smell of tuna or something like that. The man had just taken a sandwich, probably. “Indeed I would recommend a few weeks of rest. You risk a vocal crisis, Madame”.

And thus the fate of her Cio-Cio-San was sealed for that night and for the rest of her run.

  


***

_Don't be so downhearted, I can't stand seeing you like that._

This is what the mail read, in the first place. He wasn't looking at her – there was no way he would communicate with her via Skype - , he only had listened that little part of her performance and had suffered imagining her struggle. He later, in the few minutes he was alone, discovered the audience's anger at the announcement of her withdrawal. The president didn't bother with Act III, even if later learnt that the understudy had made a pretty decent job. In social networks, opera aficionados were joining in the feast. He didn't know exactly why opera public is considered to be a beacon of politeness when in reality they can be extremely nasty like any other group of human beings interested in one thing. Elena's detractors were having a field day. He imagined her downhearted, and he'd been right of course.

_For you is easy to say that, from your little club reunion. Have you decided to invite Volodia again? Everything you do becomes gold, or so it seems. The media are always singing your praises. While I am here back in my room, with nothing to do except not singing at all before leaving this city. I need some weeks of rest, if I still want to sing_ Armida _._

He had smiled at the screen, in a curious mix of sadness and joy. She was downhearted evidently but not entirely sunk if she still could write with a certain dose of snark. And of course she was thinking of her future performances, even if one or two in-between had been cancelled.

Volodia _is not being invited until he leaves that bit of Ukraine he stole. I think you'd like it here. We have interesting conversations. The coffee is good enough. On the other hand, I don't know these media which are constantly singing my praises. Would you please send me a link? That would be refreshing after so many controversies._

_Volodia_ was constantly present in spirit at least anyway thanks to Donald Trump, who kept insisting in that G7 should became G8 again. At this stage and given the American President's antics, it was more probable that it would become the G6. 

_Anyway, I'm telling you a little secret, before you read it when you are trying to know more about my deeds._

_Which kind of secret?_ , she answered.

_I'm going to visit your city soon. Next month._

He was going to write that he was kind of happy she would be stuck in Madrid for the next weeks, because that meant a possibility for them to have some time for themselves, even if it was a handful of hours. But he refrained himself to do so. Instead he wrote:

_And if you behave well enough I'll maybe bring the World Cup for you_.

_Don't be so sure_.

He didn't ask if she was referring to her behaviour or if she dared to imply that France wouldn't win the World Cup. But they would. After all, didn't she say that everything he touched became gold?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Doctor Atomic is a contemporary opera first premiered in 2005 in San Francisco.   
> (2) The tweet is real  
> (3) ... And the gloves are real too!   
> (4) "He dies with honor who cannot live with honor". Cio-Cio-San's father commited suicide by order of the Emperor and she ends the opera taking her own life after the American officer she marries on act I comes back to Japan with an American wife and takes her child away. 
> 
> Well, that's all for this chapter. As always, feel free to comment, critizise, etc, etc. Until next one!


	13. De este apacible rincón de Madrid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one after that scandal you have heard about, probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome again dear readers to this first fic of mine, which is not written in my first language. I always tell you the same, but think is necessary because I do mistakes now and then.  
> Second, opera and other references are found at the end notes. Most of them anyway.  
> That said, enjoy, as usual.

**XIII**

**_De este apacible rincón de Madrid_ **

  


_De este apacible rincón de Madrid,_

_donde mis años de mozo pasé,_

_una mañana radiante partí_

_sin más caudal que mi fe._

_Por un amor imposible_

_días de triunfo soñé_

_y mi fortuna_

_fue tan propicia_

_que lo alcancé._

(From this peaceful neighborhood of Madrid,

where I spent my youth,

one radiant morning I departed

with nothing more than my self-belief.

I dreamt of impossible love

and great days of triumph,

and my fortunes

have been so auspicious

that I have grasped them.)

_De este apacible rincón de Madrid._ MORENO TORROBA _, Luisa Fernanda_

**July**

Everything he touched became dust these days. Including arriving late to this dinner, which was not an ordinary one. Protocol in the Royal Palace was to wait for guests half an hour, not a minute more. But that limit had been surpassed beyond acceptable when his car entered the Plaza de la Armería. He could only blame himself for making Felipe VI and his guests – personalities from all boards of Spanish political and cultural class – wait; he had arrived too late to his interview with Pedro Sánchez, the new Spanish Prime Minister, and from then the schedule had been a mess. This wasn't that infrequent with him. The new element were the constant missteps. From the car's window he gave a glance to the palace; the largest royal palace in Europe, touristic guides of the city said. It was, indeed, the largest functioning one, and also the largest by floor area. The reminder of former greatness built on the same place where the Alcázar once was until fire destroyed it (1). 

The living proof of all that dead greatness was waiting for him on bottom the Grand Staircase. Felipe VI of Spain, the descendant of the kings that built that palace and even of those who had built the original one. It was kind of unsettling, Emmanuel thought as the King greeted him. There was no trace of irritation of course, but he guessed it was there. Even if this wasn't a State visit – a State visit meant arriving to the palace escorted by the Royal Guard, reviewing the Guard in the King's company and being saluted by cannon shots – and only a kind of more _informal_ occasion – as informal as dinner in that place could be – he had broken all the possible courtesy rules.

Who could have said it two weeks ago, when he had stood under the rain in Moscow, drenched but immensely happy – the also drenched Croatian president who had run her fingers through his hair seemed as happy as he was - , greeting the players of the French National Team that had just won their second World Cup. But barely a few days later - with a minor controversy in between – that scandal about his bodyguard had blowed up and, at last, that inner voice that was repeating now and then _Everything is going too well, to smoothly, something will happen_ proved itself right _._ Since then, every day was field day for oppositions – too overjoyed to have at last something to sink their teeth in – and media. And he had to admit it, the affair had been dealt terribly enough. By himself, no doubt, in the first place.

They climbed the majestic staircase from the entrance where new Ambassadors used to arrive on a carriage pulled by six horses. He raised furtively his eyes to admire the ceiling frescoes by Corrado Giaquinto. Spain protecting Religion, or something like that. It was curious that the current state of the staircase dated from 1789. The year which saw the beginning of the Revolution that would lead to a French Republic, and yet there he was, climbing the stairs with a Bourbon king at his side. Wasn't that ironic, he thought while they passed by the sculpture of one of the lions set on the landing. It was ironic, too, that their countries had been at war most of their History. And yet, thanks the European Union, they were now side by side. Mostly.

Yes, he had to admit the mediatic storm had been not only underestimated but also fueled by himself. First with his silence, then with his words. That now infamous Come and get me improvised before the members of his party. Sibeth had been disperated. Everyone was, that bunch of young individuals bold enough to conquer power like they were riding Pegasus; now the winged horse had kicked them in their colective arses. As for him, he felt like he wasn't in control, anymore. Not even of his own time. Even Brigitte had told them than they were stupid, and he the biggest fool of all them. She had then retired to le Touquet to spend some days there. Emmanuel didn't blame her. She would be back soon, he knew it. But her going away, even for a short time, wasn't helpful at all.

Dinner would be held at the Hall of Columns. A very significant place; there the treaty of adhesion to the then European Economic Community had been signed. There King Juan Carlos had staged his abdication. It had been a ballroom until Alfonso XII used it to held his first wife's funeral chapel. Maria de las Mercedes, Louis Philippe's granddaughter. A tragic story, that one. They had been in love, they were young, she died shortly after her eighteenth birthday. After her death Alfonso had ordered the building of the cathedral facing the palace, to house one day his beloved wife's tomb. The problem was, even if the French President was polite enough to not mention it, that the cathedral was positively ugly. He came from Amiens, he knew a thing or two about these things. That Alfonso had loved his first wife didn't help him from having several dalliances. The most famous of them a certain opera singer named Elena Sanz, who gave him two children (2). Elena... he smiled to himself, fleetly. 

Elena, _his_ Elena had panicked, too, like everyone else. Even if in Spain the story of the bodyguard was somewhat subdued, certain journalists had questions about it and the motion of no confidence faced by his government. Motions of not confidence didn't work the same than in Spain, where Prime Minister Rajoy had fallen last month, giving his place to Mr. Sánchez. The new Socialist Prime Minister was tall and handsome, and a sort of survivor he had learnt. He was facing his own mediatic storm after being revealed that he had used one of the presidential planes for private reasons, namely going to a rock festival or something like that. The last he knew about Elena, though, was that mail she had sent yesterday: she was furious because she wasn't invited to the reception.

Before the dinner, he had to greet the guests who had patiently waited for him. Members of the government, politicians, writers, sportspersons. All them reunited in the so-called Saleta Gasparini (3), a room with walls in red French embroidered silk and with a painting by Mengs in its ceiling: the Apotheosis of Trajan. He displayed his charm, still intact as it would always be. Standing in front of a 17th Century tapestry on the Hall of Columns – a tapestry depicting a miracle, no less - , he made the traditional toast before the dinner, apologizing, blaming himself for the delay – because he was the one to blame, even if Spanish media already were blaming their Prime Minister-, praising the relationship between the two countries, to end sitting between the King and Spain's Foreign Affairs Minister.

There was an aura of faded glory in that hall. Of a country which had been an Empire and no longer was. Tomorrow he would fly to Portugal and would feel the same. These two countries which once traced a line to divide the world between them. It was fitting, he thought, for his own mood right now.

*** 

Isabel had decided to visit her that afternoon, on her way back from the veterinary. She came with that perfect smile and _Nelly II_ in her portable carrier. Having a brother who worked in a veterinary clinic, she always chose to go to another one. She always feared he insisted in making her a discount or something similar. 

“She's quite angry”, Isabel said as a greeting to her sister, kissing her cheek. Elena looked at the cat on the other side of the grid. The animal hissed at her, which made her chuckle. She reminded her of the original _Nelly_. Isabel opened the carrier's door; she had left in the entrance of the living room, just under that giant poster Olga had send to her – everyone thought it was the American space shuttle at first sight, but it was actually the Soviet Buran - and held the cat in her arms, trying to calm down the animal. Elena looked at her with certain regret. She had no pets; with her errant life she had decided not to. 

“I came to remind you that Laura's Birthday party is tomorrow at six p.m. Did you made up your mind about her gift?” _Nelly II_ seemed interested in exploring Elena's attic, but Isabel held the cat thigh.

“Yes”

“It's a book? Another one?”.

“One of these giant books with a fable every day”, she replied, annoyed. What was that bad with giving books as gifts?, Elena said, shrugging.

“Nothing. But it's quite unoriginal coming from you. And, in my experience, children of Laura's age prefer toys”

Or mobile phones, Elena thought, caressing _Nelly II_ 's head. The animal meowed. 

“How are you feeling today?”

Which answer could she give? A half truth. There was a lot of stuff going on these days. And she couldn't tell everything, not even to her sister. Unless she asked directly, of course. She was a good liar but not enough. It was not only her throat, that had forced her to cancel that _Armida_ she wished so hard to sing. It was her worry and her fear. For him, above all. For herself, too.

The singer was going to answer when the sound of her phone interrupted her. Not _Pomp & Circumstance _ or _Der Schauspieldirektor,_ neither her generic phone call. Instead, it was _Soave sia il vento_ from _Così fan tutte_.

_Alphonse_. 

She apologized to her sister. “I have to answer that call”, she said. This reminded her of previous calls.

_Her first reaction had been incredulity, the second worry, the third panic. She had thought, at the beginning, that the bodyguard involved on that scandal was Alphonse. After all, he was the only one she knew. In an impulse that she later regretted, she had called him._

“ _No, Madame”,_ he had said, at the other side of the line. _“As you can see in the news. On the other hand, I have certain age. There are things I can't do anymore”._

“ _But did he was...”_

“ _Oh, yes. That night, next to the Grand Palais. He was the other one”._

“ _B-But I didn't notice...”_

“ _Madame didn't pay attention evidently. After all, Madame only noticed me when I introduced myself at Garnier”._

_Alphonse had that custom of talking about her in third person during their conversations, now and then. It was strange, like he was talking about a fictional creature or someone she didn't knew._

“ _... And... he was somewhere at the Opéra, too?”_

“ _Yes, Madame”._

“ _Oh. So this will be known, sooner or later”._

“ _Probably, Madame; but not for now I think”._

“ _What a mess”._

“ _Yes, Madame”_

But now she turned her back on her sister, giving Alphonse the most vague possible answers.

“Yes, I'll be available... I think... tell the Maestro”

“ _Madame?_ ” 

“May I ask you the date of the performance?”

“ _Ah, I understand. Madame is not alone_ ”

“Yes, exactly. I mean no, I'm not”.

“ _After the dinner. I can't tell you about the hour. Madame knows that he's not predictable in that aspect_ ”.

“So I have heard”

“ _I'd call you before we arrive, Madame. You don't need to answer that call. You are not very far from the palace after all_ ”

“Perfect then.” She didn't ask how they knew the address. It wasn't a secret after all, a cursory search was enough. “And... how is the Maestro feeling?”.

“ _I am not the one to judge, Madame_ ”.

“Very well then, I'll wait for your call”.

Isabel was looking at her with her head tilted when she ended the call, in curious coordination with _Nelly II_. Four eyes blinking at the same time. Finally she said:

“Always doing plans, aren't you?”

“Well, I must think about the future of my career”, Elena replied, with too much enthusiasm.

“You look just like that time you had an affair with that married guy. What was his name...? The pianist”, Isabel said abruptly. Like her cat when she trapped a bird, she looked satisfied at her sister's confusion. Elena didn't answer. 

“Oh, Elena. I have no idea of what's going on with you”. If this was an invitation to have a talk over a coffee, the soprano ignored it.

“Nothing at all. A little vocal crisis, and nothing else”.

“Whatever. You'll tell me sooner or later, like the other time”; Isabel introduced the cat again in the carrier, with certain difficulties. She kissed her sister's cheek and added “Remember, at six o' clock”.

***

In one of his previous visits to the city when he was Hollande's minister of Economy he had heard an old saying about Madrid's – or rather Castile's – climate. _Seis meses de invierno y tres meses de infierno_. Six months of winter, three months of hell. This left other three months of more or less decent weather. It was clear he had arrived in the hellish portion of the year. Even at night, it was suffocating. The immediate surroundings of the palace were curiously quiet at that hour, with he knew that, beyond the perimeter of security, the city was lively and restless. Some people were having dinner at that hour. Others profited of the night to search for freshness in parks and gardens. 

It had been necessary to go back to the residence of the French ambassador, with all the vehicles that accompanied him and the sirens of the Spanish police preceding his car. In the middle of the last century, the French republic had acquired the villa from the Marquis of Urquijo. A name that still made the inhabitants of the city adopt a somber attitude and talk about weird theories, if they were of the conspirationist kind (4). In the heart of the city, the French ambassador had the largest private garden in the city. The embassy itself was in another spot of the city, a relatively modest – in its dimensions - little palace built during the 19th Century. One of the many that once graced Madrid, many of these for ever vanished. Another purchase of the French Republic, this time at the end of the 19th Century, had saved it. Probably.

From the residence it was relatively easy to change to a more discreet vehicle and head to Elena's house, with the minimum bare security detail. He felt again like a fugitive; as that night in Paris, he enjoyed the feeling. Alphonse had shown him a photo of Elena's house, in a very discreet street. Alphonse made the call. 

“Ten minutes, Monsieur le Président.”

A bit formal for that moment, Emmanuel thought. How many times he had arranged similar escapades for his predecessors? He crossed his fingers, uncrossed them again. Didn't get rid of his sunglasses – even at that hour of the night – or his leather jacket. Even on that heat.

Alphonse looked at him furtively. So he was nervous, like a schoolboy on a date. He'd been less at Garnier, but then he was in his own terrain, so to speak. Now he was on unknown territory and pursued by scandal. Two bodyguards and a driver. A crowd who knew the secret already. Without counting _the other one_... The car left behind the fashionable street of Serrano and headed again to the very heart of the city, near from the palace. It was absurd to do this, but he couldn't stop at her door with all the security detail, police sirens included. It was fortunate that Madame Mendieta had chosen a extremely discreet building in a quiet street. And, thank to the call, they wouldn't have the necessity of using the entryphone, because she was there in the portal when they arrived. Not outside, she didn't put a foot on the street. She opened the door once she saw them approach to the house. What was she wearing exactly, a football kit?

It was unlikely, she said with a still hoarse voice, that the neighbours showed up at that hour. The only gesture she dared to do was to reach for the president's hand. She had been alone with him at that box, but there was no way that they left them alone in the elevator. So they entered the cabin, and during the short traject to the attic they all kept in a very uncomfortable silence. The attic had an individual entrance. She had no neighbours on that floor, how convenient. 

Finally they arrived to her door. She opened it with hands which trembled – how typical – and pushed it, pausing to look at Alphonse and then at the President. Were they supposed to enter the house? She seemed unsure. 

“Alphonse will wait for your call”, Emmanuel said, taking his sunglasses off and surrounding her waist with his arm and playing with her loose hair. He was smiling, smiling openly for the first time in... at least, several days. She was starting to respond to that embrace when the door closed behind her damaged voice and his somewhat faded reputation.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- Madrid's first Alcázar was destroyed by fire on Christmas Eve 1734. An important portion of the royal collections perished in that fire, even if many was saved.  
> 2- Elena Sanz (1844-1898) was a contralto. It's kind of ironical that one of her iconic roles was Leonore from Donizetti's La Favorite, loosely based on the story of Leonor de Guzmán, favorite of king Alfonso XI of Castile (1310-1351).  
> 3- Or "little saloon of Carlos III". Not to be confused with Gasparini's Room, which still has the original decoration of the 18th Century.  
> 4- If you like crime stories, the murder of the Marquesses of Urquijo in 1980 is one of these cases open to all kind of theories every country has.
> 
> Well, that's all for now. As usual, feel free to comment, and until next one! :)


	14. Due bocks, egli disse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of pianos, underdog football teams and beers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to skip that part about language & all. I don't think again that this is very explicit, but since we get to know what happened that night behind that door, I'm changing this to teens & up. Yes, surprise, our characters have a handful of hours for themselves and I hope I gave them a good time.  
> If this also gives a good time for you readers, I'll be glad. For me, it wasn't an easy thing to write.  
> As usual, notes are at the end, in case you are interested in some of the references.

**XIV**

**_Due bocks, egli disse_ **

_Cantava una lenta canzone_

_la musica strana_

_e una voce lontana_

_me diceva così:_

_"Fanciulla è sbocciato l'amore!_

_difendi, difendi il tuo core!_

_Dei baci e sorrisi l'incanto_

_si paga con stille di pianto!..."_

_Quando ci sedemmo_

_stanchi, estenuati_

_dalla danza, la gola_

_arsa, ma l'anima_

_piena d'allegrezza,_

_me parve che si schiudesse_

_tutta una nuova esistenza!..._

_Due bocks...egli disse al garzone!_

_Stupita fissavo quel grande scialone!_

(Strange music was playing

and a distant voice said to me:

“ Young girl, love is in bloom!

Defend, defend your heart!

The charm of kisses and smiles

will be paid later with your tears.

When we sat down,

tired, exhausted, 

from our dance, our throats 

burning, but our souls full of happiness,

it was like a new, whole existence opened for me.

Two beers! He said to the waiter.

Astounded I watched that great squandering)

_Denaro.. nient’altro che denaro… Ore dolci e sublimi._ PUCCINI _, La Rondine_

The next day in Lisbon, he stopped in front of that piano, at the same venue where he would held one of these debates about Europe. Elections to the European Parliament were coming next year, and he was on something that could be called pre-campaign. Half smiling, he caressed the keys. The piano... had been one of the novelties last night. 

She had a piano at home, of course. What else could be expected from an opera singer, or at least from one who had bought – but not entirely paid yet, she stated – an attic like that one. Elena used it for exercises, but she wasn't good, or so she said later. What first happened, was their kiss. She had then joked about his leather jacket **,** which now lied on a chair next to that Buran poster on the wall. _Buran_. Named after a snowstorm. He thought the last of them had been destroyed in its own hangar, or something like that. Was she an enthusiast of the Soviet Space Program? Maybe he would ask her later.

“It's discreet”, he replied.

“There's nothing discreet about wearing something like that in this city, with this heat. It's like you had a sign on your head saying _look at me_ ”.

He had to admit she was right. Another mishap to add to the list.

“How are you feeling?”, he said, brushing a strand of hair off of her forehead. 

Emmanuel had been impatient to have her in his arms and now that she was there, and that they had so little time, it seemed rude to just take her to the bedroom, wherever it was. He felt definitely more awkward than he should.

“Fine, except for a slight desire to be dead which I'm sure will pass.”

“Who are you plagiarizing now?” he asked, blinking. Even for her standards, that sentence was too melodramatic.

“It's from _Mutiny on the Bounty_. My father's favorite movie. I think he made us watch it ten times”. Which version? She made a pause, but didn't clarify it (1). “Would you care for a drink?”

He hesitated; finally asked for a beer. As she left for a moment his side to go to the kitchen, he turned to look at her, with that football shirt – Rayo Vallecano, of all the possible teams – and the black shorts. Exactly like in that Don Pasquale production. Well not exactly. He looked at his surroundings. A large living room, with bookcases disposed in a sort of arch that separated the room in two. There was a radio sounding in some spot of the house. Tchaikovsky? Yes, _The Queen of Spades_ . He decided to explore the other side of the arc, caressing the books' spines on his way. The nearest shelf contained Spanish translations of Dumas, in volumes that seemed inherited. _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , _La Reine Margot_ , _The Two Dianas_ , _The Three Musketeers_ , _Twenty Years After_ , _The Vicomte de Bragelonne_ ... _The Queen's Necklace_. He took this last one, opened it carefully enough to avoid breaking its spine, smell the old volume, observed distractedly the illustrations; Joseph Balsamo a.k.a Cagliostro, Andrée de Taverney and Marie-Antoinette... Jeanne de Valois Saint-Rémy, countess of La Motte (2), holding the fatal jewel in her hands. Scandals, he said to himself, used to be less lame back then; but it was still uncomfortable to be involved. He sighed and put the book back on its place. 

At the other side of the arch formed by the bookcases was the piano. And behind the instrument, the doors that opened to the terrace. She had a good view of the palace and its gardens from there, he thought. The terrace door was open, but he would explore that place later. What caught his attention was the piano, which seemed to call for him. He looked at the sheet and recognized it, with its pages stained of cheap wine from the floor of that karaoke bar. There was one thing he could gift to her: a decent briefcase. He imagined it; it would be a classy thing; black leather probably, with her, or rather their initials engraved. Sitting at the piano and without further ado, he played the introduction of Armida's great aria from Act II, _D'Amore al dolce impero_... the awkwardness disappeared as he played, while he somewhat noticed she was there on his back, watching him, probably with his beer in her hands. She was now one of the very few people that had watched him play. This was private, this was him, his very self. Defenseless. Like one of these wolves that offer their throat to their victors. 

Without looking back at her, he played the introduction of Rossini's _Armida,_ which merged into a few bars from a piece of Bach to end its interpretation with an impromptu and lively recreation of the final part of the ouverture from Offenbach's _La vie parisienne_ . When he raised his head, she was there, at his side, looking at him bewildered. She left the beer can on the piano – not the best possible idea – and sitting on his lap, kissed him, hungrily as she used to. Apparently she wanted to take all the air out of his lungs. Her tongue made its way through his teeth, which was no great feat given that he had gladly allowed the intrusion and answered in a similar way. Her mouth tasted of liquorice, or perhaps it was of some kind of Spanish pills for treating her cough. They paused, he gasping for air; she immediately bent her mouth to his throat and changed position, trying to sit astride. It was a dangerous move for the poor stool, which leaned, almost sending them against the keyboard. A very uncomfortable place to do anything but playing music, no matter what movies and literature have told. _Maybe she has another kind of experiences_ , he thought for a moment, a series of confuse images playing in his mind. But if she was more expert in dalliances than he would ever be, he was agile enough to avoid the fall, just like he had avoided it in that daybed. One hand still in the instrument, the other in her waist, he also prevented her from falling. Meanwhile, he felt Elena's breath on his neck, and her lips over his veins in a series of soft kisses, as if she enjoyed feeling the race of his pulse. She stopped for a moment and raised her head again, looking at him directly in his eyes, smiling.

“You are good”

“Nonsense, I didn't play time enough for you to...”

“No, I know it. You are good”.

He bit sweetly her bottom lip, or rather he touched it slightly with his teeth, his touch being more a caress that brushed her mouth. He had succeeded in settling her right, and now his hands ventured under that white cloth crossed by a diagonal red stripe, reaching for her back; there was nothing to unfasten there, only her fresh skin. Emmanuel then decided to pay attention to the front, caressing her breasts. She gasped, glanced at him amused, undid one button of his shirt; then, she undid another.

“Aren't you going to show me the rest of the house or...?”

He meant the bedroom of course, even if he hadn't mentioned it. Maybe it was strange, that last straw of delicacy when his fingers were already playing with her nipples, but even in that situation one could show good manners, no? Besides, they could try something more comfortable than a piano bench tonight. Anyway, Elena giggled like this was a witty comment and carefully got up with a sigh, as his hands slipped out of her flesh. They didn't remain inactive for much time, since she took his wrist and pulled him to her. Instead of the corridor she lead him to the terrace, so he guessed the bedroom had two entrances. Unless she wanted to make out in the outside, with that fabulous view of the Palace. The problem being that they may could be an interesting view too, for the neighbours of the building across the street. He felt more indulgent now towards the Cathedral; the building was still positively ugly, but it looked better when considering the whole, with the Palace beaming like the moon just in front of the neoclassical façade. But, even if she stopped to still undo one of his buttons, she evidently had no intention of using that bench he furtively saw at the end of the terrace. Instead she opened a glass door and they both stepped in her bedroom, where an agreeable freshness received them. 

There were vintage French opera posters hanging in the walls. In the half lit room, the titles could be read _Werther_ , _Faust_ , _Carmen_ ... _Louise_ (3). But this was no moment to dwell in her apparent appreciation of French repertoire – never that apparent in her choice of roles -, just like it was no moment to talk about the splendors and miseries of the Soviet space program or anything else. She undid the rest of buttons and got rid of his shirt. They kissed again, for a long time, quietly, while fumbling over buckles, falling clothes and shoes, he taking off her shirt; it landed somewhere next to his. He laid her on the bed and pulled down her shorts and then her underwear. Joining her moments after, he kissed her forehead, her lips, her closed eyelids, that nose of hers, slightly turned-up. She responded passionately. How many hands she had? He could feel them everywhere at the same time, burning and slightly sweaty, full of urgence and desire. Running along his back, his shoulders, his chest, reaching between his legs. The whole time she whispered words he couldn't fully understand; his Spanish wasn't that good to catch everything she said between two breaths. Only his name could be clearly heard, repeated now and then.

She put her hands on his shoulders, pushed him against the mattress; the pillow smell of a sort of fabric softener with a lavender scent and of her hair. Very well then; her bedroom, her rules, he had no qualms about that. She took the lead then, muttering something like _You don't need to be constantly in charge, do you?_ No, he actually didn't. For the first time in weeks, he enjoyed not having control over what was happening. Again her hands were everywhere, at the same time, along with her lips, her teeths, her tongue, even that turned-up nose. He grabbed her waist, his hands running through her tights, her ribs, and then her breasts, enjoying the sensation of that delicious gooseflesh she always had when she was excited. He repeated her name, also, like she was doing with his. He felt he was melting, for the initial freshness of the room had gone away and heat – was never a moment of respite in this city? - was coming from the terrace, along with the distant sound of cars and occasional sirens. She was rocking her hips with an excruciating slowness, he adapted to that movement, well coordinated enough. Then the climax arrived and she leaned over him, her cheeks damp and salty, and with a sigh she snuggled against his neck, while he tried to recover his breath. 

In that spot of the house he still didn't know – and didn't visit, he thought the next day in Lisbon – a Russian tenor kept singing to his beloved. _Krasavitsa, boginya, angel_ (4).

***

Later, much later, when that Russian guy had fulfilled his fate and he had taken the lead the next time, she put that shirt back on, and finally went for the beer they had forgotten on the piano. She came back with two cans, and gave him the cold one. Not bothering with glasses. Well, who needed them anyway. The can was redish and gold, and white. A typical brand from here, brewed in Madrid, she said. Something starting with M, but he didn't pay attention.

“I'm going to manage with this one.”

“Tepid beer? I thought this wasn't a thing in your city”, he said after a gulp of his own beer, cold as ice. It did him well. But, tepid beer? In his experience the coldest it was, the more a Spaniard would enjoy it.

“It isn't”. She sat on the bed at his side, her legs crossed, as she opened the can. “But it will be better for my throat if it's not cold”

But she had screamed loudly that night, and this wasn't good for her throat, either. He decided not to mention it, however. 

“How is you have that shirt? I had half expected you were a Real Madrid fan, or either you liked Atletico. You aren't from that neighborhood after all as far I know. No one remembers one of that team's players anyway”.

She frowned. 

“At home, we always liked the underdog of underdogs. It's my father's fault again, he really was a fan and infected us all. We don't need these posh guys in white or the others who think they are the Best Football Fans in the World. Even if I have to pick one of these two I'd pick Atletico. Supposing that doesn't hurt you, _Monsieur_ ”.

“Thank you very much for reminding me the suffering of the last Europa League, _Madame_. Tell me, how is possible for all these football teams in this same city reaching finals. Except yours of course”.

“It must be in the air”, she joked, ignoring his pun. “Or in our water. Tell us that our cathedral is ugly and we'll agree, talk about our regional identity or some nonsense like that and we'll shrug, even if there was once a neighbourhood in this city that proclaimed independence from Spain just to annoy the city mayor...”

“Wait, what...”

“Yes. They even met Castro, go figure, until they decided to go back to their homeland's generous bosom (5). But I digress. If someone insults, question or mock the quality of our tap water, we'll probably want to tear their eyes out”, she said.

He smiled at her exaggeration. What time was it? He really didn't know, didn't' want to know, but he guessed it was the time to call Alphonse. Reality was calling for him again, and he gave a sigh as that invisible weight fell upon his shoulders again. 

“So you have to go, don't you?” she said, with a touch of sadness. Not sounding surprised by the way.

“Yes”, he answered.

“Do you think we'll ever have... a night, an entire night soon?” 

He looked at her. She meant sleeping together, in each other's arms? Yes, she meant that. One night without schedules? He had often told people that he wouldn't make promises he couldn't fulfill. But now he did it, even if he wasn't sure and she knew it.

“I promise we'll have. One day, we'll have one of these nights”.

He blinked, startled, his fingers still on the keyboard of that piano in Lisbon, the next day. He had heard the sound of one of Soazig's cameras. She had profited of the moment, as usual, and caught him again in one of these iconic images. Again, she had managed to make herself invisible, indispensable.

He fleetly smiled at her and walked to the auditorium where people waited for the debate about the European Union.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The one from 1962. I'm not aware the previous ones have a similar quote  
> (2) Dumas' book is based on the so-called "Affair of the necklace" which seriously damaged Marie-Antoinette's - and in general, French monarchy's - image. Andrée de Taverney is a fictional character from that series composed by Joseph Balsamo, The Queen's necklace, Ange Pitou, The Countess of Charny and The Knight of Maison-Rouge.  
> (3) Works respectively by Massenet, Gounod, Bizet and Charpentier.  
> (4) My beauty, my goddess, my angel. What Hermann, main character of The Queen of Spades, sings (repeatedly) to his beloved Lisa, in whose room he has slipped.  
> (5) In 1990 the humble suburb of Cerro Belmonte proclaimed its independence, after repeated protests against real state speculation and the expropiation of their land. A delegation of Cerro Belmonte even met Fidel Castro. Their "independence" lasted a week, when they decided their "annexion" to the region of Madrid again.
> 
> Well, this is all for today. Feel free to comment and critizise, as usual.  
> Until the next one!


	15. Kudà, kudà

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of food, red wine and canaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, once again, there's the thing about English not bein my first language. And, whenever you see opera references, you'll find (mostly) the answer in the end notes.  
> I'm not that sure about this chapter, but I thought friends (in this case Olga) deserve a visit if you are near them.

**XV**

**_Kudà, kudà_ **

_Kudà, kudà, kudà vi udalitis,_

_vesni moyei zlatiye dni?_

_Shto dyen griadushki mnye gotovit?_

_Yevo moi vzor naprasno lovit:_

_v glubokoi mglye tayitsa on!_

_Nyet muzhadi; prav sudbi zakon!_

_Paddu li ya, streloy pronzyonni,_

_il mima proletitona,_

_vsyo blago; bdieniya i sna_

_prikhodit cias opredelyonni!_

_Blagoslovyen i dyen zabot,_

_blagoslovyen i tmi prikhod!_

Where have you gone, 

o golden days of my spring?

What does the day coming has in store for me?

It escapes my eyes, it is hidden!

Shall I fall to the deadly arrow, or will it pass by?

All for better, there is a pre-determined time

For life and for sleep

Blessed is a day of simple tasks

And blessed is the day of troubles.

 _Kudà, kudà_ . TCHAIKOVSKY, _Eugene Onegin_.

**August**

She braces herself before stepping inside that flat, because she expects the smell of illness and decay, and she doesn't want to show how this affects her. There were, in her mother's hometown in the South, that town they visited every single year for a few days, when she was a child. Yes, there were these two old ladies which had been her relative's friends decades ago. Why, she never asked. All Elena knows about her family tree is that no one has been important enough to even dream about a house as big at that one. Because they lived in an old house one would have qualified as an hôtel. Three storeys and a cellar, and she suspected, a garret too. She never fully explored it. Never was allowed. Once it had stood in the outskirts of the town, but the latter having grown, their house and its unkempt garden now were in the middle of a new street, with new buildings at either side. Like an stubborn dinosaur, it slowly awaited death. 

But what made her fear that ineludible visit every year when she was a little girl wasn't only that she had to sit quietly while her parents and these ladies talked about people she didn't know and didn't care about, because they were longtime dead before her own birth. No, it was the smell. A mix of the old, unwashed clothes and bodies. The smell of that house full of clutter and stuffed animals – there was especially that fox in the foyer – that later stayed with her the rest of the day. The two ladies had been long time dead now and the house demolished, but she still remembers the smell, and often it points out when she has visited old or sick relatives. So, when she hears steps coming from the corridor on the other side of the door, she takes a deep breath and waits for Olga to open it.

“Elena!”, she cries as she kisses the soprano's cheeks. There is no surprise, since she was aware of her coming visiting, but Olga acts like it was one. Elena kisses her too; it's weird to be in her apartment, when during almost a year they have talked only via Skype. And lately, not that much, she thinks with a certain regret while Olga's mother greets her too. She gives her the flowers – five roses, not one more - and the wine she has brought with her as a present. “And how was your recital?”

“Oh, look! It's Spanish wine, how nice of you!”. She says that in English, before the soprano had the time to answer. She speaks with a very slight accent. She was good learning languages, Olga had said once.

More smiling and an offer of wearing a really worn pair of slippers.

“Thank you very much, Madam, I brought mine”, the soprano answers softly, opening her handbag and extracting a pair of foldable ballerinas. She puts them on, which is a relief considering that her heeled sandals are killing her. There is music coming from one spot of the apartment. And what seems to be a canary singing along it. An unusual kind of canary, anyhow. She's no expert but never has heard a canary singing like that, with all these trills and bells. But no trace of that stench of illness and decay she has expected. Everything she can see is tidy and cozy, and has nothing to do with how the building – grey, square and kind of depressing – looks in the outside. It's not so different to the apartment block she grew on. 

“I'll show you where you can wash your hands, dear”. This leads to a tour of the flat, with Olga's mother leading and the mezzosoprano just behind them. The music – and the canary's singing - come from the living room and Elena now recognizes the voice. Lemeshev. There, in a reclinable chair, is Olga's father, looking at the void. Because even if the television is on – but mute – and both the yellow bird jumping on its cage next to the balcony door and the mythical tenor on the speakers make noise enough, there's no reaction from the man. Until she realises he's smiling. She braces herself again for that sensation of being in the presence of decay and illness, but once more she's surprised. There's no trace of these things there. Only a man remarkably thin, or rather half-consumed but dapper in his dark trousers, white shirt and blue wool vest, whose smile broads as she enters the room.

“He loves visits. It's normal, we are often alone the three of us.”, Olga says, as Elena leans and touches the man's hand, out of courtesy. He grabs her fingers with surprising strength. “Oh, shut up, Sergei!”

Elena takes more time than necessary in understanding that she refers to the canary, and not the animal's namesake, that legendary tenor from the Soviet era. The animal is silent just for a second, emites a little chirp that almost could be considered as mocking and erupts into song again, while Lemeshev, on the other side, is still singing _Korobejniki_ (1). Or so she thinks.

_The foggy night has already come,_

_The daring lad is awaiting,_

_Hark, it's her!_

_The desired one has come,_

_The merchant is selling his goods._

_Katya is haggling with care,_

_She is afraid to pay too much,_

_A lad is kissing his lass,_

_Asking her to raise the price._

_Only the deep night knows,_

_What they agreed upon._

_Straighten up now, oh tall rye,_

_And keep their secret scrupulously!_

“My father always liked this music and, above all, this singer. That's how it happened to me; to be an opera singer, I guess”, Olga says. “His factory wasn't the one which paid the highest salaries in the town – those went to these guys who were making pieces for missiles and the space program - , but he managed to buy a record now and then. So that's why I listened to music constantly”, she giggled. 

“We all loved Lemeshev, actually” Olga's mother smiles “And my mother even more; she once fight with another girls because they all wanted to eat the snow where he had walked. All these movies he did, and the records, helped a bit”. And she laughs, while Elena wonders if that legend is or not true, or if Olga's grandmother was actually involved. She knows about other stories, like that one of angry fans blaming and menacing the tenor's ex-wife and daughter when it was revealed that he had felt depressed after the divorce. Or how all his celebrity terrorized him, when he was actually shy and quite the vulnerable guy loved by everyone who ever worked with him. Unlike Nelepp, who used his KGB contacts to get rid of his rivals (2).

The music stops and the man's smile vanish. He gives his daughter a sad look, like he is about to cry. Olga puts the record on again; it's now an aria from Massenet's _Manon_. Sung in Russian, naturally, as tradition had demanded in Lemeshev's times. The man smiles again, leaves her fingers go. No one tells the canary to shut up now, so Sergei keeps singing along while Olga's mother resumes the tour of the flat. She notices Olga is staying behind, in the living room.

“He never can be alone for much time... He may fall and hurt himself”.

She says it casually, but betraying so many sleepless nights and anguish that Elena shudders against her will. She now realises many things: her friend's pale face and weariness, the wheelchair behind the living room's door, the box on the bathroom cabinet that contains diapers. They end their short tour in the kitchen, where a carefully set table crumbles under an incredible amount of food. 

“I hope you are hungry, darling, because all this won't eat itself”.

***

The recital, by the way, had been fine. Her voice was back, one could say. Looking at the program, one could say that there were too many orchestral pieces there, namely an overture and two _intermezzi_ ; certain critics argued that the times when singers picked more substantial programs had forever left. All those poor young talents, some of them even well trained, with their voice ruined in a handful of years because they don't know how to choose their roles, or don't know their limitations, or want to sing in too many places at the same time, or are _required_ by opera houses to sing in too many places at the same time, they had written. 

She didn't like these observations. It was they were already betting her career was over. It was unbearable, almost insulting, that thought.

Her phrasing was praised, her trills analized and judged good enough, her Russian diction – for she had added Tatiana's letter scene and Natasha's _arioso_ from _War and Peace_ – understandable. The two points in which her voice almost rebelled, considered _the logical consequence of a recent illness_. 

Overall, fine, as said. 

But nothing remarkable. 

“You need your confidence back”, Carmen had said.

_Confidence_? 

It's not self confidence what was lacking. She had it, like the first day. The problem was her impatience. On one side, not singing meant not being paid. Of course there were royalties, and all that. But she needed it, she couldn't afford to stop singing for much time; not only financially (even if she had her savings): she needed to perform again, be onstage, feel that extrange energy coming from the orchestra pit, that communion between singers, conductor and director that often she had felt. And the public, that sort of multiple-headed beast she sometimes had tamed, sometimes had bit back at her. But she missed it all, downfalls included. The exhilarating, nerve wracking energy the operatic stage exudes.

But for the moment, several recitals and the possibility of an _Andrea Chénier_ in Barcelona, in October. Something she hadn't cancelled, she was still scheduled to sing Maddalena di Coigny (3) there. Meanwhile, her impatience turned her irritable and difficult to manage. Carmen knew how to get around that, mostly ignoring her if she made a too bitter remark, just as she didn't listen her that night after the San Francisco's _Butterfly_ , when she had pretended to fire her because of her negative about using steroids. Her resolution had lasted two minutes.

There was another thing that had made her nervous.

Her next recital would be in September, in Salzburg. And from there she should fly to Barcelona, ready to start her rehearsals. The Summer Festival would be over by then, so she would have limited attention, no broadcast and local audience, mainly. And unlike in Moscow, she wouldn't have an orchestra, but only a pianist with her. She was supposed to leave Mozart's hometown next day. Just when the informal EU summit would be held. An encounter with Emmanuel would be unlikely, even if they were trying to arrange something. Half an hour. Fifteen minutes. A quiet talk. _Something_.

“You are scary sometimes”, Chus had said. It had been awkward when he and Carmen had arrived to her house next morning, to find her still asleep in the middle of a devastated bed. It wasn't the first time they found her in a similar situation, but, even if Carmen didn't made the connexion between the French president's brief visit and the state of her protegée's bedroom, Chus knew better. So she confessed everything the next occasion in which they were left alone.

Definitely, the secret wasn't a secret anymore. Too many people knew.

“I thought you were going to limit yourself to write mails to the guy”.

Chus had been furious at Emmanuel during ten days, not one more, not one less. He had made the King wait, and there he was conflicted between his loyalty to Elena – if he was Elena's choice, he couldn't be that bad – and the crime of lèse majesté the French President was obviously guilty of. “He's fortunate he wasn't kicked in the ass. Please tell me you kicked him at some point of the night”. But Elena had declined the question. Anyway, he had promised, when his grudge was over, that his lips were sealed.

“I'll try to help you again with your great romance. Now, you should consider visiting Olga when you are in Russia”

“She doesn't live in Moscow”

“Nonsense, her town is not that far. Oh, Elena, she will be happy to see you, and you'll be glad too. Don't act like that”.

And this was how he, and later Carmen, convinced her of making that visit she feared, precisely because of her apprehension of illness and death. She, who had died on stage so many times and played so many courageous ladies. And now, there she was. Afraid of visiting a friend.

She hadn't overcome her apprehension when she stood before Olga's door, a flower bouquet in one hand and a bottle of Spanish wine in the other.

***

Olga having joined them at the kitchen, saying simply that her father is quiet for the moment, they proceed to eat that mountain of food. It's fortunate that she is hungry, so she doesn't fail to taste the salad or these things with meat gelatine which instantly become a guilty pleasure. During the meal, though, Olga or her mother will periodically go to the living room, to check if everything is fine. She understands that their lives now orbit around the man on the reclining armchair. But there's no sadness in their conversation.

“This is a really delicious wine, Elena! Did you bring it from Spain just for us? Next time you should try bringing that ham you have there”

“Or a calamari sandwich. I remember one I ate that time in Madrid”, Olga adds. “With a crunchy baguette and really cold beer”.

She feels ridiculous when that combination of words awakes in her the memory of that night last month.

“Yes, all the way from Spain”, she lies, somewhat confused. Actually it has been bought at a gourmet store in Moscow. The terrible truth is that she has forgotten she was supposed to bring something with her, out of courtesy. Olga gives her an amused side eye, clearly having guessed the truth. “Not at delicious as these”, she says, pointing to the mushroom and chicken stew. 

And they haven't arrived at the main course yet. Roasted chicken with apples, Olga has said.

Her friend fills her glass again. The bottle is already half empty, but that was the point, to have something to share. Elena takes a sip, carefully. She has to go back to Moscow anyway, and it wouldn't be a good idea to get drunk. The soprano has made clear she is not _yet_ – would she ever be? - accustomed to drink that much. 

“How is that Sergei can sing like that?”, she ask rather abruptly.

“Well, because he's a Russian canary obviously”, Olga says, and she and her mother laugh. Elena doesn't understand the joke, so she waits for the answer as she takes a bit of pie. It has cabbage? It doesn't matter, she enjoys the taste. “I mean when canaries arrived here breeders were overjoyed they could imitate the sing of local birds they kept in cages. So that's it. They also played flutes and organs or pipes when they were training. That's how my father spent his free time. With Lemeshev and training birds”.

“So Sergei is the last”. 

“Yes”, Olga says. “He won a contest once”.

Olga winks at her.

“I remember you made a rather unfortunate comment involving canaries last year in Paris. The day after the President visited you backstage”.

“Are his eyes that blue in real life?” Olga's mother asks. 

“More”, Elena answers.

The two Sergeis in the living room engage in a lively interpretation of Rossini's _La Danza_ (4).

Before night falls, she walks with Olga to the train station. Of course, her hosts never would be rude enough to hint she should go. But after the desserts and tea, she knows it's time to go. Besides, they need to take care of Olga's father. She bids farewell to him, too, while Olga takes off the music for today and whispers a last _Shut up, Sergei_.

And she covers the animal's cage with a white cloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- You may find this song familiar. A hint: Tetris.  
> 2- Sergei Lemeshev (1902-1977), born in an humble family of peasants was one of the greatest tenors of his time. Immensely popular, he was adored by his fans, to the extremes narrated above. His signature role was that of the poet Lensky in Tchaikovsky's Eugene Onegin, but he starred in a great variety of operas. Giorgy Nelepp (1904-1953) shared with Lemeshev his humble origins, but there's a black legend about his life and death. He's supposed to have been "recruited" for the KGB and occasionally taken advantage from his position to "get rid" of rivals and enemies.  
> 3- The name of Andrea Chenier's main female character  
> 4- La Danza is a song composed by Rossini in 1835, with lyrics by Carlo Pepoli.
> 
> Well, as usual, enjoy and feel free to comment! Until next chapter!


	16. Soli è una Luna scialba

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of spectacular venues and impromptu dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers. Once again I'll tell you English is not my first language so you'll have to be patient with my typos.  
> In the second place, you know all this is fictional, and that the real people "involved" here have barely any resemblance with their real counterparts. Oh, they sure look the same, sometimes I use their own words and real details about their lives, but that's all.   
> Well, enjoy the chapter. I think I was somewhat distracted by architecture carved in the rock, or sometimes. As usual, in the final notes you have some clarifications. Again, enjoy.

**_XVI_ **

**_Soli è una Luna scialba._ **

  
  


_ Ad ora bruna e tarda _

_ la Luna è tutta gaia _

_ se in due la si riguarda; _

_ Soli è una Luna scialba... _

_ Se Notte non ti appaia, _

_ amica, invoca l'Alba!  _

(In the dark, late night,

the Moon is certainly merry

if one looks at it in good company.

If you are alone, the Moon is quite lackluster

if Night don't satisfies you

my friend, call for the dawn!)

Ad ora bruna (Ode to the Moon) MASCAGNI,  _ Iris _

  
  
  
  


**_September_ **

> **RECITAL, SALZBURG** Those who rushed, after a certain _ Madama Butterfly _ – our readers could measure the extension of the catastrophe with the video kindly provided by a member of the audience, leave alone the broadcast -, to prophetice the ending of Mrs. Mendieta's career may have rushed too much. Palcoscenico, certainly implacable, has no vocation of mortician, and today the Spanish soprano can say, like Mark Twain on a certain occasion, that the rumors of her death have been greatly exaggerated. The rumors about the death of her voice, in any case, since we hope that all the singers we have the honor of listening to live a long and prosperous life. Even that baritone who sued us last month. 
> 
> But our readers don't care about our legal woes and they're absolutely right. Mrs. Mendieta, accompanied by the veteran pianist Mr. Sboboda, sang pieces by Verdi, Bellini, Puccini, Mercadante, Mozart and Massenet (...), with several encores which included a nod to the Spanish repertoire and closing with a charming rendition of  _ Salut à la France _ from Donizetti's  _ La fille du Régiment _ . When asked after the concert why she had added that particular aria from an opera she has never sung on stage, and if this is a hint about future roles, she answered  _ Maybe _ , but added with a certain euphoria that it was actually a nod to the next opera she's singing. From  _ Palcoscenico _ , we fail to fully understand how the charming Marie and Maddalena di Coigny are related, since the former gets the man and the life she wants in the end and the latter lost her head – even if in the company of the man she wants, a meagre consolation if there's one -, unless what she wanted to tell us is that there wouldn't be a French Imperial Army without a French Revolution, But, we don't know if giving a crash course about French history was Mrs. Mendieta's goal (…).

In a sort of reversal of what happened with the Von Trapps in that same place (1), they join the scene of the Felsenreitschule one by one, under the sound of percussion instruments. It's weird and extravagant to dispose the table there, under the rock-carved arcades of that ancient riding school turned theatre. Covered with a white cloth, it seems to await the visit of a super league of villains. Or a sacrifice. He looks at the orageish light lightening the arcades and the great chandelier hanging over the scene, a very modern design. Yes, it looks like the secret quarters of a villains league; or like that war room from  _ Doctor Strangelove _ . Not even the lively green of the flower stands on stage belie that feeling. Yes, is an impressive and extravagant scenery; he wonders how the Austrian chancellor had the idea. He finally reaches the stage, waving at President Grybauskaite, who is profiting of the moment to take some photos with her mobile phone.

_ A sacrifice _ . He wonders if the victim is not Theresa May. She'll have ten minutes after the dinner to talk her 27 counterparts and make her case. It's not that much, since Chancellor Kurz has wanted to center tonight's debate around immigration, and her case is pretty much lost. Wearing a dark blue suit and her trademark animal print shoes – he remembers a magazine featuring these shoes barely pointing from the sea while he literally walked on water, but that was at the beginning of his presidency anyway -, the British Prime Minister walks on the stage and around the huge table, looking for her place. He greets her, knowing that for the British position he's playing the role of Satan himself again. Or at least for brexiters, but Brexit was voted, and Brexit will be. He feels sorry for this woman who never wanted that thing anyway and who now, as Prime Minister, has to defend it, while the ones who lied their way through that campaign fled the stage as the cowards they are.

In fact, they all have their own problems. Look at Mr. Sánchez; no one doubts his government will be short lived, given his scarce possibilities of approving next year's budget. Besides, there seems to be a controversy about him plagiarizing his dissertation. Several of his ministers have already resigned. One of them lasted exactly a week.

As far of ministers resigning, though, he's not doing better. Summer has not ended yet, but just when he believed he could fix things that had derailed in July, his Environment minister had resigned while live on radio. He was flying to Finland when his Telegram notifications went mad with all his cabinet, Secretaries of State and members of the parliament in general writing messages of two words, mostly variations of  _ Merde, Hulot _ or  _ Oh putain _ . The man had finally succumbed to his  _ états d'âme _ and resigned, in a particularly indelicate way, without telling him or the Prime Minister. While praising them both. It was particularly difficult to understand, all that. Someone who considers you a  _ friend _ and says he admires you but, on the other hand, stabs you in the back.

Was that how Hollande had felt? Well, he had  _ told _ him. That he didn't realise what was happening, it was difficult to believe, even now.

But he had been forced to deal with all that, while on his way to Finland and on board the presidential plane. Just the day before he had to deal with that coffee at Helsinki Market. Even after all the drama live on radio, he didn't oppose to receive him at l'Èlysée, to bid him farewell. It was a gesture of mere courtesy, a ritual for resigned minister who had been something similar to the spoils of war when he had succeeded – many had tried, but only him had vanquished his resistance – in making of Hulot a member of his government. Now he remembered he had said, over a lunch just days before the inauguration:  _ One day I'll maybe quit, and you, you'll have the problem, you'll be the one who will lose the more _ . (2)  


That visit, before the cameras, even showing he held no rancor towards him, was an idea of the mormons of course. “No way”, Brigitte had said. “He's been appalling, not even bothering with telling you. If he chose to leave the government by the backdoor, then he's not going to have the honor courtyard waiting for him”. She was ferocious at that moment, implacable, and, after adding “you don't know how separate from people, do you” she stated the former minister couldn't be received openly. So he never was. There was no  _ republican _ gesture of both men at the stairs. And Emmanuel, who had praised him before the press, had made a comment about those who talk too much and don't act when they have the power to do so, looking at Hulot's empty chair during the next cabinet meeting.

He passes by the Italian Conte, always complaining – in private – about the weird coalition that put him in place.  _ He's always telling me he'll make the government fall _ , is his recurrent expression whenever Italy opposes to something.  _ He _ is Salvini – no one remembers about the Cinque Stelle guy -, and even if Emmanuel's recommendation, in his strongly-accented Italian – a language he understands perfectly but he doesn't  _ quite _ dare to speak – is telling him  _ Andate a quel paese, Matte _ ' (3), it's unlikely he'll actually say something of that kind. He greets Angela Merkel, who is now sitting at Tsipras side, both looking at the retractile roof over the stage. 

“Six minutes, exactly”, the German chancellor says, pointing at the ceiling, that can be extended or retracted in that amount of time. Emmanuel and the Greek Prime Minister are curiously coordinated in a polite “Ah” which could be translated as a concession to Austrian – Germanic?- efficiency. Angela is an habituee of the Summer Festival, as well as of the Wagnerian one in Bayreuth. He gives, indeed, a look at the retractile roof. They could be dining under the stars tonight. But there are safety concerns, and all that. 

“Of course, it's curious that when this was a riding school the public used to sit there”, she points to the arcades surrounding the stage. “Now these are a gold mine for stage directors. I remember that Magic Flute with...”. There's an awkward silence. Even those who don't know that much about opera have heard about the downfall of the Music Director of the Met.  _ Everyone knew _ , Elena would have said.  _ For decades _ , she would add (4).

He turns his head to look at the parterre and its rows of seats. There's a very exasperated photographer there, waiting for the leaders of the European Union to sit in their places and thus allow him to capture the moment, but even if several of them have already sit – including Theresa May but especially Theresa May – he's going to wait still a long time, since Bettel and Juncker have joined their little group and start talking about the architectural aspects of the Felsenreitschule too, after Juncker has tapped everyone's shoulder and kissed everyone's cheek.

“Well, let's see how the night goes”, Juncker says. “She's said some interesting things, she makes her job, she's... polite”.

“But...”

“But there's no hope her plan works I'm afraid” the President of the European Commision looks at the enthusiast drummer player, indefatigable in his red shirt. “Well, that's quite an original musical background I must say. But, are we going to have dinner while listening to that, I mean all the time?”.

Fortunately, they are not.

  
  


***

  
  


When the dinner is over and they all start going back to the hotel after walking through the foyer – which the Felstensreitschule shares with the Kleines Festspielhaus -, he sees with the corner of the eye the only poster left from the day before's concert. Two workers are preparing the posters for next concert and taking Elena's away. A face he knows very well being taken off the walls; definitely she looks better without all that photoshop. She was there last night, singing in the Kleines Festspielhaus – or the Haus für Mozart, if one wants to call the venue for its actual name -; for what he has read, the critics were good enough, and she was in good shape.

> _ I added  _ Salut à la France _ only for you, did you know? No, you don't, but now you do. Even if there's no broadcast, no recording, I sang that encore tonight only thinking of you. What an absurdity, you'll say, I almost can see you smiling while reading this in some minutes. Because probably you are still awake at this hour. Maybe preparing tomorrow's summit with the  _ Rat Boy _ ; or maybe you are texting those ministers of yours. Or both. Are you still sitting on your desk? I am celebrating my success in the villa of a friend here, in Anif  _ (5) _. With the major of the city and part of the good old society of Salzburg, the one who lives here the entire year I mean. You know, we are almost next to Karajan's gravestone. My friend likes to remind that to us poor singers, Heaven knows why. I've escaped the room where the party is held and I'm in the garden. I wish you were here. But you... _

The message ended abruptly there. She had probably been distracted and sent it too fast, but there wasn't a second one. He imagines her barefoot in the grass, bathed by the moonlight. But no, she wouldn't be imprudent enough to risk another cold, not now. Her message had finished abruptly there. As she had guessed, he had been awake at that hour. He remembers he had laughed, not at her adding  _ Salut à la France _ just for him; that is pleasing, and reminiscent of that old tradition of performing  _ La Fille du Régiment _ on Bastille Day (6). No, his laugh is due to Elena's sobriquet for Chancellor Kurz.  _ Rat Boy _ . He's needed all his self control to not laugh every time the young Austrian Chancellor addressed to him; he wonders which kind of sobriquets she has for the rest of the European leaders, including himself. 

The car leaves him at the hotel's door; several of the leaders are already reunited at the bar, sipping a last drink while talking about tomorrow's activities. He asks for a whisky and sits at a table with Sánchez and Costa. Theresa May is not there, poor thing. Well, maybe is not very correct to address like that to the British Prime Minister but is better than _Rat Boy_.

“... And then I'll tell them,  _ Do you know the thing I am proudest about _ ?”, Sánchez was telling the Portuguese Prime Minister, but looked up to Emmanuel.

“What are we talking about, if it's not indiscreet?”

“About his book”, Costa says, pointing to Sánchez. “Or rather his future book. Because I think he's writing himself, this time, no?”.

Was that an allusion to Sánchez's problems with plagiarism? If so, the Spanish Prime Minister didn't flinch.

“It starts with a joke”, the man that once used to write tweets about SpongeBob SquarePants (7) and now had the reputation of an astute revenant adds then: “I'll tell than the thing I'm mostly proud about is how I changed the mattress when we first arrived to the presidential palace. They'll go mad and probably won't bother in reading the entire chapter. Then I'll tell what really makes me proud”

“Ah. I'm sure of that”, Emmanuel says, sipping his whisky. He had also changed the one at the Élysèe. Normal procedure, wasn't it? It's probably one of the few things he really have the right to change, even if reforms are being made. It was necessary, he'd been told; sometimes it rained in the Hall of Feasts. It was now red and gold; in december that red would be gray. It would look less like a second-empire brothel or like the Palais Gar... He clears his throat “Do you have the title already?”, he asks politely.

“We are thinking something like resilience, or survival”, Sánchez jokes. “Is not that I survived to a helicopter crash like my predecessor, but...”

“Résistance? Mine was called  _ Revolution _ .”. He sighs. It was really awful when one of the first persons who read the manuscript practically forced him to write about himself. And then everyone made fun of the title.

“Resistencia. Not bad”

His phone – well, his second phone – emits a little sound. He looks at the screen, distractedly. Ah, here's her second message.

> …  _ but you wouldn't enjoy last night's party, I'm sure. _

_ Last night. _ He looks at the timestamp. This was written two hours ago, and, if he has received it now is because of the hotel's wireless connection.

“And what was that thing you were so proud about?”, Costa is asking to the Spaniard.

The answer is surely interesting, but a new message arrives then.

> _ Anyway I expect you will enjoy tonight's one. And I don't meant the summit. _

“…But what we really need is an European policy for that. Don't you two agree?”

“Of course”, Emmanuel says, vaguely ashamed of not being listening that time. Another whisky sip. And then two more. He gets up.

They give him a puzzled look. He searches for an excuse to leave the table so soon. Or is too soon already? After all the messages are from two hours ago and...

“We'll discuss about it tomorrow”

The third message arrives.

> _ I'll be waiting for you.  _

Just outside the bar, he meets Alphonse, who makes him a gesture towards the elevator. 

“Why didn't you tell me...”

“She was improvising”, the bodyguard answers. He can't tell if he's amused or annoyed.

“But how much time has she been...”

“Three hours I think”.

So the first thing he sees when he steps into his room is an exquisite briefcase on the table; black leather, her initials carved in the metallic clasp, EM.

The second thing is the half-open door of the suite's bedroom.

The third thing, when he finally enters the bedroom, is a woman in his bed. Something has clearly failed, though, since she has fallen asleep, probably too tired to keep waiting for him. Her chestnut hair is spread over the pillow and moonlight baths her face and her shoulders. He's feeling tired, too. She really wants that night he promised her, and she has tried to make it happen now. Very carefully he takes off his shoes and lies at her side, quite uncertain about what to do now. But he's too tired to even think and he falls asleep too, sinking his face in her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) In case you don't have watched The Sound of Music yet, what are you doing? Go watch it!  
> (2) This anecdote seems to be real, but I have changed a thing or two, is not a "precise" quote  
> (3) Basically get lost. There are less refined ways to say it but I picked a polite variation.  
> (4) James Levine, music director back then of New York's Metropolitan Opera, conducted a very famous production of Mozart's The Magic Flute there. In 2018 he was dismissed after a series of men came forward to accuse him of sexual abuse.  
> (5) Just next to Salzburg, Anif was where Karajan lived and was later buried, in a quite modest grave.  
> (6) A tradition long lost now, actually lost shortly after WWI.  
> (7) Sanchez's old tweets go from SpongeBob Squarepants to an infamous dinner with pizza in a bar called Luna Rosa.
> 
> And that's all for now. I hope you enjoyed. You are, as usual, free to comment, critizise, etc, etc. Until next chapter!


	17. Morgen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of showers, breakfasts and... swashbuckler novels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I do usually, I remind you that English is not my first language (probably you are tired of me repeating this), and that this happens in a sort of paralel universe (should I add that to the tags? Serious question, I am really that inexpert in this kind of thing) With no further ado, enjoy the chapter. Notes about certain references (ahem, opera, but not only opera) are at the end, as usual.

**XVII**

**_Morgen_ **

  
  
  
  


_Und morgen wird die Sonne wieder scheinen_

_und auf dem Wege, den ich gehen werde,_

_wird uns, die Glücklichen sie wieder einen_

_inmitten dieser sonnen atmenden Erde..._

_und zu dem Strand, dem weiten, wogenblauen,_

_werden wir still und langsam niedersteigen,_

_stumm werden wir uns in die Augen schauen,_

_und auf uns sinkt des Glückes stummes Schweigen..._

(And tomorrow the sun will shine again

And on the way which I shall follow

She will again unite us lucky ones

As all around us the earth breathes in the sun

Slowly, silently, we will climb down

To the wide beach and the blue waves

In silence, we will look in each other's eyes

And the mute stillness of happiness will sink upon us)

_Morgen!_ RICHARD STRAUSS Opus 27, number 4.

It was dawning when she opened her eyes, not realizing, at that moment, where she was. This wasn't inusual; often Elena needed several minutes to remember in which city she was. She stirred and yawned at the same time and rolled in her bed, which, she recalled in that moment, wasn't hers at all. She hit another person with her arm, a man wearing a white shirt with embroidered initials and navy blue trousers. A man already awake and with his eyes lost in the reading of some document emerged from last night's working dinner.

“Good morning”, he said, leaving the document on the nightstand. He had a book there, something she didn't notice last night. A book about Italian painting of the Quattrocento judging by the red title on the spine; it's incredible he has time for reading. She also conceded the superiority of printed books, but her pragmatism in that aspect seemed to be greater than his; when traveling, she usually read digital books. If one didn't pay attention enough, he maybe could have looked impeccable, as usual. But his clothes were rumpled, his hair disheveled and there was a hint of a stubble on his face. She ran her fingers through her own hair, knowing she looked far worse than Emmanuel did. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I am sorry”, she answered, with something that could be defined as a pout. 

He raised his eyebrows, amused.

“Are you sorry because you had a good sleep?”, he blinked, as if that was the most ridiculous idea in the world.

“I am sorry because this wasn't exactly what I meant by having a _party_ here waiting for you”.

“Ah”, he snorted, mockingly. “I guess you wanted the whole package. Well I was tired too, and I am not sorry for enjoying a good sleep in this company” he kissed the corner of her mouth and stirred. 

“What time is it?”, she said with a certain regret, looking at the window. 

“Half past six. The Sun will rise in a few minutes I think. But I don't think we can see it from the hotel, with that building in front of us”

“I don't give a damn about the sunrise”, she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I'd prefer it was not the dawn...”

“Well”, he replied still joking “I'm afraid we can't do anything about Earth's rotation”.

She refrained herself from replying because this was starting to sound like a weird parody of the beginning of Act IV from Gounod's _Roméo et Juliette_. It wasn`t that in said opera the star-crossed lovers had a conversation about the rotation of the Earth, but, like their shakespearean originals, they were reluctant to acknowledge the arrival of the dawn, which meant separation. She disliked singing that opera, or rather that aria from, precisely, Act IV that always put her in difficulty. The soprano was always opposed to traditions that made cuts on the score, but she wouldn't mind to make an exception for that one (1). Anyway, instead of replying she closed her eyes and aspired his smell – the last hints of his perfume, his own scent underneath. Under her hand, Elena could notice his heartbeat, and she could have stayed like that forever, in silence, but peace lasted a moment.

On the other hand, she expected their story would end differently. Jokes about opera and tragic endings aside.

There was a knock at the door. They looked at each other, startled. Then followed a scene worthy of one of these old screwball comedies with doors opening and closing, and she jumping out of the bed, eyes open with a terrified look, running to hide in the bathroom, while picking her clothes in her way. She forgot her shoes, which he kicked under the bed. He opened the bedroom's door.

“Monsieur le Président, good morning, it's a quarter to seven. Would you like your breakfast served already?”

It was the majordomo, of course, who else could be. One thinks of butlers or majordomos as genteel middle age men with white gloves and a perfect accent, like they look in these British series with servants chattering around a vaste wooden table, not that far from their masters. But what a majordomo do at the Élysée palace is to be at the president's side, no matter where he is, in Paris or in an official visit. He's there to care about his everyday clothes, even his underwear, he chooses them, he's the one to pack the baggages, he cares about things like soap, toothpaste or shampoo. He, also, cares about his breakfast. In the palace there's still talk about the legendary Walter Luttringer, the man who served three presidents, from De Gaulle and Pompidou (whom he begged to smoke less) to Giscard, who kept forgetting his glasses unless Walter reminded him of them. But there's always a butler near the president, discreet and loyal, and more often than not a military officer (2).

“Yes, of course, but I'll take a shower first”, he said, a hint of blush in his cheeks. It was obvious he was wearing still yesterday's clothes, and the majordomo was looking with certain dismay their state, while disposing in the armchair a white shirt, clean and crisp, with a dark blue suit, dark socks and a dark silk tie, and a pair of shoes carefully brushed. Also the underwear, since it was one of his tasks to go shopping for these particular articles. He then proceeded to pick the exquisite briefcase out of the table and put it on a nearby desk; Emmanuel thought he heard him sigh. He picked something from the floor too, near the table. A hair fork, shaped like a swan. He handed it to the president, with a concerned look.

“That lady wants to eat something too, I guess”

“That's correct”, he muttered while his fingers made the hair fork turn. Probably, anyway. Another look from the majordomo, more of concern, he realised, than of disappointment. He smiled at him, thankful for his silence and discretion, and he looked even more sad and concerned as he returned the smile and disappeared to order the breakfast. He was younger than Alphonse; was not still accustomed to witness too many human weaknesses and was worried about said weaknesses harming the man he served.

The hair fork still turning between his fingers, he went back to the bedroom and crossed it, opening the bathroom's door. She still had that look in her eyes, and was holding her clothes against her breast like she was ready to run away with them, still in her underwear and barefoot. That would be awkward no doubt. She seemed so confused that he couldn't help laughing, very heartily, imagining how he looked, himself, with his blushed cheeks. He looked at the carved hair fork, which gave him an idea. And more reasons to blush, to be honest.

“It's not funny”, she said, vaguely annoyed. “I was really scared for a moment”. She took the hand he offered to her and stood up before the mirror. He plunged his fingers on her hair, which strangely makes her think about that character of the opera she's supposed to perform next month, _Io pur voglio fare affondare le mie mani nel mare de' tuoi capelli biondi..._ (3) Well, she was not blonde neither her hair could be compared to the ocean but his hands were deep into her hair and caressing it, putting it up with unexpected dexterity, fixing it with the hair fork. Then he kissed her on the base of her neck and she realised what was coming. 

“We don't want it to get wet, do we?”, he said, talking about her hair. And he picked first her blouse and then her skirt from her hands, hanging them. “We don't want them to be wrinkled. Look at my clothes, compared with this, yours seem quite decent”. And he started to unbutton his own shirt, leaving it fall to the floor. “And we don't want another cold for you. Is that right, Madame? So this” he said sliding his finger under the strip of her bra “must remain dry at all costs”.

“Perfectly right, Monsieur”, she said, laughter bubbling in her throat while he got rid of that penultimate obstacle. She then closed her eyes as he kissed her then, not in a corner but full in her mouth, her chin, her neck and her shoulders. When his lips reached the top of her breasts, her laughter evolved in something between moaning and sighing. But loud.

“Again, I'm not sure that's good for your voice; I think you should be more quiet”, was his teasing reply, as, inexorable and meticulous, he made sure his mouth and his tongue properly acknowledged the existence of every millimeter of her skin. She nevertheless ignored his advise about the health of her voice when he decided to give particular attention to her nipples, in a very effective combination of his hands and his mouth, a very fine team they were, and curiously unrushed in spite of all that pressing matters waiting for their owner outside that door. It was her and not him who dipped her fingers on his hair when Emmanuel decided that part of her body has had attention enough and proceeded to make way down through her belly until she felt his breath through the only piece of cloth left on her body. “And this”, he said, pulling her panties down. “We don't want another cold for you, remember?” That very effective duet went back to work again, even more meticulous.

“If you keep doing that I'm going to push you down and sit on your face”, Elena said; so unlikely of her. Or thought she said, because her words were actually barely coherent and she, who was supposed to control her breathing at all costs, was gasping for air. 

“Maybe I'd like that”, he answered, stepping up and taking off his trousers and underwear at the same time “Next time”. He kissed her again. And with his arm on her waist, he dragged her with him to the shower. Which both, of course, enjoyed.

  
  


***

Over the hurried – there was no other word to define it - breakfast she discovered he bit his nails when he was nervous and he, that the _prima donna_ sometimes forgot one shouldn't talk while eating, but none of these traits were really fatal flaws. What she regretted was the eternal lack of time together, but there was no other option than deal with that.

“I see you enjoyed my Birthday present”, he said between two gulps of hot coffee. He pointed to Elena's briefcase. He had picked personally the brand, the leather's design and even the way in which the initials should be carved in the metallic clasp. Then he had sent it to Madrid just in time for her birthday, last month. Of course he had paid with his own, personal money. 

She wiped a trace of raspberry jam out of her lips before answering:

“Oh, I do. And besides, there's space enough to fit my e-reader. I see you seem to snob them”, she said, pointing back to the bedroom where the book about Italian painting had been left.

He shrugged, while picking a chocolate pastry. 

“People keep giving me them as a gift. But I _do_ prefer printed books, and anyway it's good enough when I have the time to read a little bit every day. It's not that I need to carry a thousand digital books around. But judging by your library, I thought you'd agree with me. All these translations of Dumas”.

“And I have several Vernes from the same collection. My grandfather's heritage”, she replied, again forgetting about closing her mouth. Which also included that copy of Brantôme and an edition of the Arabian Nights. “All in translations”, she said, in an apologetical way. “My French wasn't that good years ago. But there are also works by Salgari or Féval”.

“ _Le Bossu_ ( 4) _?_ ” he asked “ _Si tu ne viens pas à Lagardère..._ ”

“ _Lagardère ira à toi!_ ”, she completed feigning a ferocious accent. Both laughed.

“So you prefer Dumas or Verne?”, he asked, in a similar tone than he had used that time in Strasbourg when he had asked if she prefered Rossini buffo or serio.

“Dumas”, she said, unequivocally. “Even if I read Verne before I even opened a novel by Dumas. _An Antarctic Mystery. But I_ prefer Dumas _'_ characters. Did I answer correctly, or in Amiens is all about Jules Verne and I just disappointed you?”.

“Both”, he joked, pointing to her with a teaspoon, like it was a foil. They laughed again, but a silence followed. It was strange, that they had so little time to talk about these matters. Even when they exchanged mails.

“You are going already”, she said, with sadness. It wasn't a question and he didn't answer of course. What for, she already knew what came next.

“Yes. I am sorry, but they'll be waiting for me. The twenty-seven of them. In a pretty place by the way, these gardens...” he points to an indeterminate place, beyond the window, beyond the hotel's walls. He finished his coffee. “I guess Alphonse will come for you”.

“Yes”, she replied, looking at the void, also known as the mini bar “He brought me there hidden under a blanket, in the backseat”.

“Ah”, he said”, very effective method. We have tested before”. She frowned. “With a man”. He smiled at her sudden blush. What was she thinking? “Édouard. My Prime Minister. When I decided to appoint him but didn't want it to be known... I love your imagination, it's really flattering in a certain way”

“Oh”, she said blushing. He leaned to kiss her. In the corner of her mouth, like he had done when she had opened her eyes at dawn. Brushed away a damp lock of hair, because he wasn't infalible at fixing female hair, and gravity did these things when one performs certain movements at the shower under a curtain of water.

“Stay here for the moment. He'll be there soon”.

“Tell him _I am here_ then”, she replied. Winking her eye, like he used to do, as he left. And profiting to take another pastry (5).

Already in the elevator, he realized she was quoting Lagardère's words. No one in his retinue understood why suddenly the French President quietly laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The aria in question is Amour, ravive mon courage a.k.a. Poison (or potion) scene from Act IV of Gounod's Roméo et Juliette. Making cuts in the score is no longer popular as it was decades ago, but this particular piece in which Juliet takes the potion Friar Lawrence gave to her was often left aside until the 1990s. Even the original Juliette decided to not perform it in the premiere. It's vocally and dramatically daunting, and the soprano has yet to reserve some of her energy for the rest of the opera.  
> (2) That book about the French Presidential Palace is the gift that keeps on giving, and in case you wonder the man named here existed and yes, these are the tasks described for the palace's majordomo.  
> (3) "I, too, want to dip my fingers in the ocean of your blonde hair". The baritone's character sings this at the main female protagonist in Giordano's Andrea Chénier.  
> (4) Le Bossu, by Paul Féval père (1816-1887). Not to be confused with Féval fils, who also wrote several novels using his father's character Henri de Lagardère  
> (5) Lagardère takes this motto from his friend Nevers when he's murdered.
> 
> That's all, I hope you enjoyed, and until the next one.


	18. Peggio d'un lacchè

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with mostly opera drama, since today's world opera day and after all our heroine is an opera singer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, there are probably two chapters this week, because I was - ahem - inspired and because I had time and no sleep at all. So the first is all about opera drama, the second has again a certain Canadian Prime Minister and it's already half-written.  
> Aside from that, remember that English is not my first language and that typos are probably there. I beg your pardon again. Without further ado, here's the chapter. Notes at the end, as usual.

**XVIII**

**_Peggio d'un lacchè_ **

_Un direttor di scena_

_sta peggio d'un lacchè..._

_in mezzo a tanti re_

_di cartapesta_

_c'è da perder la testa..._

_Seguir chiacchiere,_

_molcer le invidie,_

_placar le collere,_

_romper le calbele,_

_sventar le insidie delle pettegole,_

_mattino e vespro,_

_vespro e mattin,_

_senza mai fin!_

(A stage director

lives worse than a lackey

in the middle of so many

cardboard kings

he's likely to lose his head.

Pay attention to gossip,

appease jealousy,

calm tempers,

neutralize cliques,

blow up the blabbermouth's pitfalls,

day and night,

night and day,

it never ends!)

CILEA, _Adriana Lecouvreur_ , Act I

  
  


**October**

“No, no, no, Madame no!”, the director screamed from the parterre, with a voice booming enough to surpass the orchestra and the three singers who currently were on stage. In the pit, Maestro Rinaldi replied with a terrible swearing and made a sign to stop the music again. The two women in stage looked at each other, not knowing exactly who of them had failed again to follow the director's indications. So far, both had been scolded. They looked strange, wearing petticoats over their streetwear. It was the first stage rehearsal with an orchestra and they only needed something that vaguely resembled their stage costumes, to see the effect. Unlike other modern directors, this one, son himself of a baritone famous during the decade of the 50s of the last century, had decided to stick faithfully to the historical moment in which the opera was set, that's it, the Summer of 1789 during the first act and the year 1794 during the other three. All the costumes and stage designs tried to be as accurate as possible, at least seen from afar. Actually, there were sacrifices to the exigencies of modern performing. But at the same time he had decided to model his vision of Giordano's _Andrea Chénier_ after the paintings of Boilly, Greuze or David, among other illustrious members of the French school of the 18th and 19th Century.

That itself was not bad. But he was painstakingly fastidious in the gestures the singers should made, all of them imitating the genre of _exemplum virtutis_ (1) _,_ historical paintings and also genre scenes _._ Even in the scene they were rehearsing, when the main female character was simply complaining about the woes of wearing corsets and hats with funny shapes after her mother the Countess scolds her for not being properly dressed already. The singers, in spite of all their good will, often forgot they should raise their arms or move their heads to imitate the aforementioned paintings, and in these moments he would scream from wherever he was, whether in the boxes or, like now, sitting on the same row next to where, people who had read about Barcelona's opera house knew, two bombs had been thrown by an anarchist in 1893, during a performance of Rossini's _William Tell_. Only one of them had exploded – the second having landed on the lap of one of the victims caused by the first one -, but had made damage enough (2). The other member of the cast on stage, the baritone, crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. According to the libretto, he shouldn't even be there, but the director had decided otherwise.

“Madame Mendieta, _please_ ”. There, she was the culprit this time. Elena sighed, corrected her posture, putting her right hand on her chest, the left arm extended, the head tilting backwards, her eyes raised to the ceiling; it was like she was commanding a regiment during the battle of Valmy instead of being a young spoiled brat like Maddalena was in the first act, but with the adequate light, it could make an striking effect, once the costumes, the staging and all were together in what that bastard, Richard Wagner, called _gesamtkunstwerk_. The Universal Artwork. What opera was, all summed up. But right now, it just looked unpractical for the singers who couldn't properly look at the conductor without risking a stiff neck. But what could be done? She braved said stiff neck to look at Rinaldi, who shrugged, as if saying “I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do about it”. On the past, singers had dominated the opera world, submitting conductors and composers to all their whims. Then came the age of conductors; the Karajans or Soltis, who used their batons as field marshals – definitely she was on a belligerent mood that afternoon - ; now there was the stage director era. Even if she preferred to talk about all of them working together.

“Perfect, Madame”, the booming voice came again. “Maestro, we can go on with the rehearsal”. There was another swearing from the pit. _È proprio incazzato_ (3), the Italian costume designer commented from her own seat on the first row, loudly enough to be heard from the stage. She was making photo after photo, imagining how her costumes would look during subsequent rehearsals and taking mental notes about the symbolism of colours. She wondered if Bersi, Maddalena's maid, should finally wear a red ribbon on Act I. As meaning blood. Yet, she was no revolutionary at all. But the singers had already restarted, and Elena, or rather Maddalena, mocked the fashions of the day. As in the fashion of Rococo era:

“ _Soffoco, moro tutta chiusa_

_in busto stretto_

_a squame ombra di moro_

_o in un corsetto, come s'usa_

“ _in seta di nakara!”_

The mezzosoprano, Mrs. Scott, made sure she reproduced faithfully the director's indications while singing her reply ( _Il tuo corsetto è cosa rara!_ ), not wanting to be interrupted again, at least not at this point. This role had certainly a show stopper for her (like for practically all the characters), at the beginning of Act II. She also got to look fabulous in that scene, getting rid of petticoats and wearing a white – the costume designer had already show her how it would look – empire style dress. Revealing and comfortable at the same time, even if inaccurate. But that wasn't the designer's fault, not even the director's. No, Giordano's librettists were to blame for including _Merveilleuses_ in an opera which ended just days before Robespierre's fall (4). But whatever the inaccuracy, she really liked that dress. No petticoats, she hated these things, which constantly tangled on her legs. Sadly, Bersi disappeared from that point. Was fondly remembered twice, and that was all. It was frustrating _._

Next scene involved a bunch of characters and then the hero of the play. And there was Aguirre, who stepped on stage among the other singers playing the Countess' guests. Following the indications of the director, he had stepped on the decor with a disapproving look. He surely would look more imposing with his costume (breeches in the first act, tight pants his wife disapproved during the rest of the opera); but for the moment, at least, he was still dashing with his blue jeans and his black shirt. And he triggered some daring comments from the ladies in the chorus coupled with assassin looks from his wife backstage. There were no incidents during the _pastorale_ , or Maddalena's mockery of Chénier. He then proceeded to sing, marking of course, the _Improvisso,_ his first big number, for he had four arias, one in each act. Apart from duets, of course. _Andrea Chénier_ wasn't called a _tenor opera_ for nothing. Ironically enough, his character was probably the less interesting of all them, but that wasn't so surprising, he was a tenor after all. Mentally Elena reminded herself she shouldn't talk about that particular opinion again. She just opened her fan – which right now was actually a cheap thing, while Maddalena, on stage, had one with white feathers, the costume designer had told her – and just before he started singing, performed a movement which could be read as a love declaration, the director had said. But while Aguirre was starting the second stance of that long diatribe against the indifference of aristocracy and the Church, the director's booming voice came again from his seat.

“No, no, no, Monsieur Aguirre, no! Remember, your hands”

Silence was made, and the tenor, closing his eyes and his fists, took a deep breath. It was like he was fighting to control his anger, but finally failed to do so. Elena, who was the nearest to him, was the one who could see that flash in Aguirre's green eyes when he opened them. _Oh oh_. A very heated exchange of insults between the stage and the parterre followed, resulting in, initially, half an hour of a break. Then it became more when it was discovered that Aguirre had gone back to the hotel, with his wife following his steps, and exiged an apology from the stage director. Which, when the evening arrived, he was still waiting.

***

The café was near the opera house, but was far from being a tourist trap, like others not far from there. Artists frequented it, during pauses and after the performances, to drink some coffee or chocolate and chatter, not always about their professional woes. Outside, it was raining, in that pouring way that could rain in the Mediterranean coast during Autumn. Sometimes the artists took a large table and sit together, but today was not the case. The mezzosoprano had decided to leave earlier, eager to see some of the city's landmarks, even under the rain. Besides, she had promised her nine-year old daughter that she would bring her some Barça souvenir and had gone shopping. The baritone had decided to rehearsal his great aria from Act III with the assistant. Rinaldi, his husband and their adopter toddler were sitting apart too, mainly because the child was noisy and didn't want to bother the rest of people at the café. They talked quietly, over the child's boisterous laughter; apparently he was finding hilarious the cartoons he was watching on a badly shattered tablet. The director, on the other hand, was sitting alone, trying by all possible means to get Aguirre to the phone. The man was genuinely devastated. Elena even felt a little sorry for him.

“... And as I told you, it requires first of all a majority of two thirds of the Congress. I see it's difficult but not impossible, why not trying...”

While distractely playing with what remained of her cheesecake, Elena could overheard Chus, who was sitting on a nearby table with two members of the orchestra and another one of the chorus. She had told him not to talk politics or constitutional reform, but there he was; to be fair it was quite a civilized and friendly conversation between these four, each of them with a different accent from a different spot of the Iberian Peninsula.

“What are you thinking about?”

Carmen had chosen a white angora turtleneck sweater and leather leggins, and her earrings were shaped as fireflies, with an assorted necklace. Her chin rested on her hand, and she was looking at her, concerned. Not about her voice health, which seemed good enough, but about something else, Elena realized. Maybe she had discovered something? Maybe Chus had told her? She glanced obliquely to the community manager, still engaged on that conversation in the table nearby; maybe she had found that cufflink she always carried with her, inside her handbag? Wasn't she turning a little paranoid? She looked Carmen directly in the eyes, her brain searching for a convenient lie; something that lately happened very often, she was quite surprised at herself and how her skills in that particular aspect were improving.

But apart from her own reasons, she had other things which worried her. Like these articles she read about Emmanuel. These talks about his health, which seemed to be faltering. Rumors about him being exhausted, on the brink of a burn out, practically killing himself with work. He had never mentioned that. _Why?_

> _I've read that in the newspapers too. That I am growing thin – well that's true, you could see it for yourself- or even that when my friends touch me, there's nothing left, nothing at all. That I have no strength left. I think you could also see for yourself and testify there's somewhat of an exaggeration there. Daily I have to read the press to see if my health is good; they seem to agree in that it's not. Reasure yourself, I'm not in the need of their false piety. They are only in search of content. Last month was that photo at St. Martin. Next week, it will be another thing. Do not worry._

“I am worried about the radio broadcast, considering what happened in Madrid during that Chénier”, she replied at last. Well, it was a half truth because that aspect worried her. Not that much, but it did.

“Well, I think they will be careful this time”

Years ago, during a performance of _Andrea Chénier_ in Madrid, the public almost rioted – well, maybe _rioting_ was an exaggeration – at the very beginning of Act I, when there were suspicions of the singers being artificially amplificated. A big no, heresy, eternal damnation. The performance had been interrupted by massive protests and the radio broadcast first delayed and then definitely cancelled. This lead to a hastily search for a studio recording at the radio station and to angry reactions from the singers, on the very stage of the opera house. Teatro Real had argued the system that allowed the sound to be heard at the foyer had malfunctioned. Everything had to start again and the tenor had been so nervous that he had to be replaced after Act II. This had raised once more the controversy of singers being artificially amplified by certain opera houses. A big no, heresy, etc, etc (5).

> _And don't worry either for whatever from the opposition says. Honestly, I'd give a year or two of my life in order to have a reasonable one. But it seems the only thing they can do is to have pavlovian reactions to whatever I do or don't, to whatever I say or don't. Sometimes I feel so alone..._

“Honestly, there's nothing that could infuriate them” and by _them_ Carmen was referring to the public “The production is nice, with all these imitation of painters and all that is a brilliant concept – don't look at me, Elena, you don't know how it looks from afar- ; costume designs are accurate and they'll adore it...”

“But we'll have to recover the tenor first”, Elena replied, happy with having succeeded in changing the matter of their conversation. She pointed to the director, still at the phone, his hand covering his mouth, his head sinking and his hand repeatedly running through his own hair.

“The guy from the second cast is good enough, don't you think?”

“He's above all very loud and moves with the grace of a brick”, Elena replied, rather cruelly. But it was true, she couldn't tell otherwise. Besides, she disliked the guy so she quite enjoyed being petty.

“I remember that _Don Giovanni_ where that Donna Anna quarreled with the conductor and he had to send flowers, chocolates and almost kneel at her feet when she threatened him with going to the airport that same evening”.

“And I remember he caught her when she was already in the taxi, yes”.

“So everything was fixed in the end”. Carmen made a gesture with her chin, pointing to the director's table “Don't worry about Aguirre, then. We know him well. He's huffing and puffing and not very happy right now...”

> _Take, for example, Mélenchon, who pretends his persona is sacred but then argues I should be dragged like I was a dog. Surprisingly enough, he's tamer when you look him into his eyes. I guess that title of President still impresses him; he can be quite reasonable when you talk to him in person... Pity he has to be so theatral. Did you see his Facebook live?_

Something crashed against the floor. They turned back to see Rinaldi's handsome husband picking his son's tablet from there and giving it to the child again, before siting and going on with his conversation. The Maestro put his hand on that of his husband and smiled to him and the child at the same time. A pretty picture they made, a loving family. Rinaldi then looked at the two women and smiled too, before going back to his conversation with his husband.

Carmen sighed.

“Certainly humanity has changed some things for the good, don't you think.”

“Yes”, Elena said as Carmen reached for her handbag, only to realise she couldn't smoke there, something that was still possible years ago.

Her eyes were veiled, and Elena knew she was thinking about her late husband, whose photo was, as usual, displayed on her room's counter. Although Carmen never had told her the whole story, she knew that both had married young, that his family had tried to submit him to therapy and that they had been a loving couple with an open relationship, even if he prefered men. It was just the kind of things that happened, back then. People forced to hide themselves. Then the truth had been discovered, her husband quarreled with his family and economical ruin ensued. That's all she knew.

As for humanity changing, it was true. But not enough.

> _I repeat it, Elena. Don't worry about me that much. I am fine enough, and looking forward to see you again... wherever it is._

“But as I was telling you, as much as he likes to act like he had suffered a mortal offense, Aguirre will be reasonable in the end. He always is”

The director stepped up, looking suddenly more optimist, and paid his account.

“Are things fixed now?” Elena asked when he walked next her table.

“Oh, Madame Mendieta, I hope so”.

_What I told you,_ Carmen's look said.

*** 

The hotel was also near from the Liceu, very conveniently. Since Chus seemed still absorbed in that friendly conversation about politics, the women left before him. Next to the opera house there was that man, a diminutive individual with a good bass voice, usually singing at the street. She had knew similar individuals all around the world, male and female. Some of them were good singers, some were not. Some of them sang because they had the mad hope of being discovered by a conductor or another singer; some of them sang because they wanted a coin or two, now and then. Some of them, finally, sang because they wanted to. The man next to the Liceu seemed to be part of that last category; his repertoire was varied. One day he could sing Verdi, the next Wagner, the other Gounod. 

Today was that Catalan traditional song, _El cant dels ocells_ (6). She herself had sung that delightfully melancolical piece often. A little crowd was watching him.

_L'àliga imperial pels aires va voltant, cantant amb melodia,_

_dient: 'Jesús és nat per treure'ns de pecat i dar-nos l'Alegria'._

They left the man behind, Elena softly humming that song she had first knew fifteen when played during the homage to the victims after a terrorist attack in her hometown Madrid or something like that. Or it was in Casals version. She didn't remember exactly. Rain had stopped. 

  
_Looking forward to see you again,_ he had written. When, that was the problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) A pictorial genre very common in the second half of the 18th Century, which is meant to illustrate courage and virtue.  
> (2) An anarchist bombing which took place on November the 7th, 1893. At 11 o'clock, at the beginning of the second act of Rossini's William Tell, the anarchist Santiago Salvador threw two Orsini bombs into the audience. Seven people were killed and several more died on subsequent days from their wounds. Salvador fled but was arrested later and sentenced to death.  
> (3) Really, really, really angry. Fucking angry. To put it mildly.  
> (4) The merveilleuses and their daring dresses appear, precisely, after Robespierre's fall.  
> (5) And there's a recording of that angry reaction from Madrid's audience: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KrIP447hja8  
> (6) Literally The Song of the Birds. Originally a Christmas Carol in which the birds tell of their joy at the birth of Jesus.
> 
> Well, as I usually say, until next chapter... which will be soon if everything goes as planned. Feel free to critizise, comment, etc.


	19. Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a conversation under the moon and dirty secrets coming out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your usual reminder about possible typos and gramatical errors, due to English not being my first language. Without further ado, enjoy this little conversation under the moon.  
> Notes at the end for all the (opera nerd but not only) references, but not all. Spot them, it's fun. :)

**XIX**

**_Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém_ **

  


_Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém_

_Světlo tvé daleko vidí,_

_Po světě bloudíš širokém,_

_Díváš se v příbytky lidí._

_Měsíčku, postůj chvíli_

_Řekni mi, kde je můj milý_

_Řekni mu, stříbrný měsíčku,_

_mé že jej objímá rámě,_

_aby si alespoň chviličku_

_vzpomenul ve snění na mě._

_Zasviť mu do daleka,_

_řekni mu, řekni mu, kdo tu naň čeká!_

_O mne-li duše lidská sní,_

_ať se tou vzpomínkou vzbudí!_

_Měsíčku, nezhasni, nezhasni!_

(O moon high up in the deep, deep sky,

Your light sees far away regions,

You travel round wide,

Wide world peering into human dwellings

'O, moon, stand still for a moment,

Tell me, ah, tell me where is my lover!

Tell him. please, silvery moon in the sky,

That I am hugging him firmly,

That he should for at least a while

Remember his dreams!

Light up his far away place,

Tell him, ah, tell him who is here waiting!

If he is dreaming about me,

May this remembrance waken him!

O, moon, don't disappear, disappear!)

_Měsíčku na nebi hlubokém_ (Song to the Moon) DVORAK, _Rusalka_

  


Night has fallen on Yerevan. He steps in the hotel's terrace, in search of fresh air, since the ambiance at the giant dining room was starting to be suffocating. Music still sounded in the background. Classical and traditional armenian music; it was beautiful and sometimes yearning, and it was a pity it was virtually unknown internationally. He is pretty sure it's the first time that most of non-armenian delegates had listened to, and danced to, that music. Even if this is Khachaturian's homeland, and the whole world has heard of Khachaturian (1). Dance... he smiles while he climbs the last steps that separate him from the platform. At one point, Emmanuel had jumped from his seat and danced, with Brigitte at his side, his hands clapping. He looked definitely awkward but happy enough during these minutes. He had looked at him, surprised, since the man never failed to astonish. He had hesitated in joining to the dance, because everything he does is mocked, especially from the moment he decided that trip to India was a good idea. In his opinion, it still was. The effectiveness of his wardrobe during the trip, and of that time he danced, is more debatable. Members of his team still are scratching their heads about that. But he finally had joined in what had turned in a collective dance, hands joined and laughs (2). The tensions of the day – with countries arguing about who should preside the Francophonie Union - were over. The sadness of the French delegation over the death of Aznavour, who was supposed to be part of it, somewhat, but not entirely, forgotten. He crosses the door that gives to the terrace and takes a deep breath. The air is fresh, but the night is agreeable enough, like that of a Spring night. He looks at the city and its thousand lights, enjoying that moment of peace. His fingers sliding on the railing, he walks slowly around the terrace, which allows to see the city from the four cardinal points. He stops a moment to contemplate the razor-thin crescent moon, its light veiled by a narrow string of clouds. It's an inspiring sight or so he thinks, while his steps lead him to the other side of the terrace, over the corner. Then he stops again.

A man is there, one hand on the railing, the other holding a light on cigarette. An halo of smoke escapes from his lips at the moment Justin puts his eyes on him. Probably smoking isn't allowed in this place, but the man who once said to Indian or American students that rules were bullshit maybe doesn't care. His white shirt, for he has taken off his jacket – he has that habit, and he understands it perfectly – reflects the lights of the hotel, and his back is turned to him. He's also contemplating the moon, or the city, Justin is not sure. He approachs softly, like he would do with a wild beast, not a ferocious but a rare one, that in his eyes should not be damaged, or even frightened. A rare bird which is never where one expects. But the wild beast, or that _rara avis_ of a president, detects him instantly.

“So my little secret is out”, he comments. “And, how embarrassing, in front of the Canadian Prime Minister”.

“How do you know it was...”

“You? I've developed eyes in my back, after being stabbed repeatedly by two ministers. No, actually I just saw you with the corner of the eye”.

Justin sighs, finally saving the distance between him and Emmanuel, contemplating the president's back. His hand touches the railing, which has been recently repainted. For the summit, no doubt. He can feel the irregularities beneath his fingers. It recalls in his mind another railing, that one under the Italian sun and opening to a bay of absurd beauty. How brightly everything had looked that day. He is greeted with what looked like a mischievous smile and a wink. The insufferable know-it-all, always proud of his misdeeds.

“I didn't know you smoked”, Justin finally commented.

“Because you don't read the French press obviously. They even unearthed my life insurance from the campaign (3). I know you have lived with cameras and the attention of the media your whole life” another wink, and a very low chuckle “But I'm still trying to adaptate myself. Generally I use to smoke a cigar now and then, in my office”, he paused “But this will do for tonight. Disappointed?”; there's a little hint of a provocation in this last word.

“Surprised, I'd rather say”, the Prime Minister replies. “As usual”. His eyes follow the movement of Emmanuel's hand, the cigarette being taken to his lips and then far from them again. He needs desperately something that keeps him from looking at his lips for such a prolongued time, and music comes to the rescue, in a very unexpected way.

A woman, singing in a longing way, with a haunting chorus behind her, in what sounds like another hidden treasure of the Armenian musical heritage. His cigarette finally put out, Emmanuel is still looking to the city.

“Beautiful, isn't it”, Justin says to the void. And it's true. A quite rare combination all put together, but mesmerizing.

“ _Anoush_ ”. There's a pause. “Armenian opera”, he clarifies. “Popular here, not much abroad” (4). Then he translates, as the women keep on singing, in an entrancing way.

“ _Alas, Anoush, you mountains flower._

_Alas to your only love._

_Alas, your long and perfumed hair._

_Alas, your deep and sad eyes.”_

“She falls in love with someone she shouldn't, he gets killed, she takes her own life” he shrugs. “Opera, you know”, he adds, like this explained everything. Justin is weirdly reminded of that Bugs Bunny cartoon. _What did you expect, a happy ending?_ (5) Emmanuel turns his back on the city, leaning against the railing. Justin thinks about something witty to say, in order to gently mock his interlocutor, who looks so serious suddenly. But doesn't find anything. Then he just makes the obvious comment, partly because he's curious.

“I didn't imagine you knew so much about that music”. He's still looking at the moon, until it is covered by clouds again. Then he looks to his side, studying the Frenchman's profile. Sometimes he looks vaguely like a young Napoleon, just like in that painting, _Bonaparte at the bridge of Arcola_ , the one with the then general waving a flag under the bullets. Only that it's not clear if the future Emperor actually waved said flag before falling into a swamp, or even if he reached that bridge at all. But that's how History is written, with a generous dosis of propaganda. Fortunately enough for the rest of the World, the man at his side is not Bonaparte. Justin dismisses that thought.

“I don't. Or rather I didn't. I just was introduced to this same recording from the Soviet era yesterday. By a friend of mine”, he replies.

“The same... _friend_ that recommended you that book?” Justin asks, eagerly, making emphasis in that word. Emmanuel looks at him directly in the eyes. Now, unlike that time when they were together at that library, he knows how that _friend_ looks and _who_ she is. The Frenchman's blue eyes look darker in that light and he has that piercing expression again, that one he adopts when he tries to read other people's minds, or pretends he's reading them, Justin realizes. Sometimes is disturbing, but, just like moments ago when he couldn't stop looking at that cigarette going on and off his lips, he cannot look away. “Verdi's letters. They make a good reading”.

“So you did read them too?”, Emmanuel whispers, ducking the question about his _friend_ . Justin wonders if he's not clarifying more about that aspect of his life, at least to him, ever. Somewhat he feels hurt by this. _Why_? But again, not surprised.

“ _France gave liberty and civilization to the modern world; and, if she falls, let us not delude ourselves, the liberty and the civilization of us all will fall_ ”, Justin quotes. “And _We will be despised one day for this attitude of ours. We shall not escape the European war, at it will devour us. It will not happen tomorrow, but it will happen_ ”. Justin makes a pause, looking for the effect his words, or rather Verdi's, have caused on Emmanuel. For the first time tonight, he looks vaguely impressed with him. “Those are the words you were referring to, that time in Canada. He was right, of course. We wouldn't have to commemorate that Great War next month otherwise”. The rest of the book, naturally, was more focused in the composer's mental process during the writing of his operas. Still, it was interesting enough.

“And I wouldn't be here...” he seems amused, Justin remembers that story about the British soldier from Bristol who became one of Emmanuel's ancestors. “But as I said, he died before he could see his prophecy fulfilled. Fortunately for him, maybe. Are you already looking forward to the commemorations next month in Paris? We have not decided yet if we should pick Ravel's _Boléro_ or _La Valse_ for the closing of the ceremony at l'Étoile”

“Why that doubt?” _Or why Ravel_.

“Because the _Boléro_ is better known of course but then _La Valse_ is the perfect portrait of that world that ended with the Great War. It's like listening the Austro-Hungarian Empire crumbling and dying, with all these distorted waltzes” A colourful and terrible image is that one, Justin says to himself; like dancers spinning into a whirlwind until they are crushed one by one. He shudders. Why is he like that; from where comes that ability of awaking this kind of haunting image, only with his words.

“The shorter the better. I don't think Donald is going to resist much time. He may do something to show his annoyance”, he says after a pause, trying to be lighthearted.

“He'll be more annoyed at other things”, the Frenchman replies, in all seriousness. The Canadian Prime Minister doesn't understand exactly where Emmanuel is going with his approach to Trump, now pandering, now scolding him, even in public. Another piece of music, this instrumental, burst out, like echoing their conversation, since it's a waltz. The opposite of a distorted waltz from a dying world, this one is flamboyant, almost ferocious in its romanticism and fire. Khachaturian of course. _Masquerade_ . Everyone knows Khachaturian. _How beautiful the new waltz is!... something between sorrow and joy gripped my heart_. The words of the heroine of the play in which the waltz was first heard in 1941, but they reflect Justin's own mood.

“Of course. Humanity always rise again to dance at the edge of the volcano”, Emmanuel comments on the music, a bit melodramatic even coming from him. “ _Bolèro_ will be”. He then plunges himself in a very detailed description of the ceremony at l'Etoile, a description Justin doesn't dare to disrupt; Emmanuel looks so enthusiastic about it that he wouldn't dare or wouldn't want. It's another thing which causes the interruption, the president's phone vibrating. He apologizes softly, while looking at the screen.

“Brigitte”, he says finally. “She wonders if I am not smoking an entire pack.” This is a prelude of him going away, Justin knows it; after all, it's very natural. He would like to retain him here, in this terrace, but it won't happen. He dares a last question.

“That friend of yours... Does Brigitte know about her? If this is an indiscreet question, you can ignore it, I mean...”

“Yes”, Emmanuel says. “Quite indiscreet”.

He puts his hand in Justin's shoulder, as if meaning that he isn't offended, just that he would, indeed, ignore the question.

“Good night, Justin”.

  
And suddenly that _rara avis_ of a president is gone, leaving Justin alone under the razor-thin crescent moon .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Aram Khachaturian (1903-1978). His Masquerade suite, his Spartacus or the Sabre Dance from Gayane are widely known. Even if you never knew the composer's name you have probably listened to some of the above.  
> (2) In case you are wondering the video exists... Although there are manipulated versions. The original seems to be this (?) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DgK2qlQ85rc  
> (3) Guess what. True story. He does smoke cigars now and then.  
> (4) Anoush is an opera composed by Armen Tigranian. This is supposed to be the translation of this (from 1:49 to 3:48 more or less): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KcQw80HYDwk  
> (5) The all-time masterpiece What's opera, doc?
> 
> As usual, until nex chapter. Hope you enjoyed and, as usual, feel free to criticize, comment, etc etc.


	20. De la palme ou de l'anathème

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one about dog actors and not entirely kind aristocrats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, first things first, I am sorry I didn't post this earlier, but I was busy and couldn't write. The second is going to sound familiar: my usual apology about the possible typos and other accidents derivated from the use of English, which is not my first language.  
> As usual opera references are explained at the end. Or, at least, part of them. This said, enjoy, feel free to comment, etc, etc.

**XX**

**_De la palme ou de l'anathème_ **

_Qui je suis? Du théâtre antique_

_j'ai perfectionné le choeur;_

_je suis l'Opinion Publique,_

_un personnage symbolique,_

_ce qu'on appelle un raisonneur._

_La choeur antique en confidence_

_se chargeait d'expliquer aux gens_

_ce qu'ils avaient compris d'avance_

_quand ils étaient intelligents._

_Moi, je fais mieux: j'agis moi-même,_

_et, prenant part à l'action,_

_de la palme ou de l'anathème_

_je fais la distribution._

_Que prenne garde à moi la femme_

_qui voudrait tromper son époux,_

_et que se garde aussi l'époux_

_qui ferait des traits à sa femme!._

_C'est aux Personnages du drame_

_que je parle, rassurez-vous!_

(Who am I? From the ancient theatre

I've perfectioned the Greek chorus;

I am the Public Opinion,

a symbolic character,

what we could call a reasoning being.

The Greek chorus, in confidence,

had for purpose to tell people

something they already knew

if they were smart enough.

I do better: I act for myself

and taking part in the action

of palms af anathemas

I do the distribution. 

Beware of the wife

who wants to cheat on her husband

and beware also of the man

who could misbehave with his wife!

I'm talking to the characters in this drama

be sure about that!)

 _Orphée aux Enfers_ (Orpheus in the Underworld), OFFENBACH, Act I.

Elena bowed during the last of the curtain calls after the performance, with a rain of flowers and bouquets falling down on the singers and the chorus, while Maestro Rinaldi picked one of the carnations that had hit him on the head and handed it to the concermaster in the pit. It had been a good _Andrea Chenier_ , overall, and public was responding on due. If anything, only a minor problem had happened during Act II, when the extra who played Robespierre – the Incorruptible, among other historical figures, appeared briefly during one of the scenes, but wasn't a singing role – was almost dragged to the pit by a dog actor. Always wanting more and more accuracy, as far as possible, the director had wanted to include Robespierre's dog for the artistic effect. There was a sort of historical controversy about the animal. Was _Brount_ a Great Dane or a little spaniel, according to the sources? (1) This caused a headache, believe it or not. Just until the director, who had read Lamartine's book on the French Revolution, decided in favor of Robespierre having a large, four-legged bodyguard. This was in contradiction with the libretto in which one could read He walks alone in reference to the Incorruptible, but, after all, the libretto also mixed the jacobins and the girondins at some spot. So they picked a large black Great Dane, generally well behaved and with white spots, because, again, someone had written about _Brount_ being black and white. During the rehearsals the animal had honored his reputation of being well trained and never gave a problem. But when the performance came he definitely saw or believed he saw something in the pit and poor “Robespierre” almost lost his wig and his verticality. Fortunately enough _Brount_ (real name _Bruno_ ) reacted to the desperate gestures of his trainer in the wings and in the end both extras avoided the fall. 

This, of course, caused some chatter during the interval, talks about incidents in that same opera house during the 19th Century. A dog, it was said, had fallen from the fourth storey to its death; a cat falling from the fifth, however, had been more fortunate; from there the conversation had evolved to anecdotes of problems with human performers, in this and other opera houses all over the world. Like that poor tenor who had been shot with real bullets during the final scene of _Tosca_ – _Tosca_ seemed a magnet for accidents, whether burning wigs or bouncing sopranos –, characters who were supposed to be gravely wounded unceremoniously rolling from the stretcher and forced to climb back on it among the audience's laughter, fake moustaches almost being swallowed by accident by their bearers or trampdoors malfunctioning and leaving the eponimous protagonist of Don Giovanni trapped between Earth and Hell. That had happened to Cesare Siepi, it was well known, which caused someone from the gallery to yell: _Hell's full!_ Finally, one member of the Liceu's staff talked about that time Franco Bonisolli, also known as _Il Pazzo_ , had failed to correctly deliver the – unwritten – High C at the end of _Di quella pira_ , so during the curtain calls he had angrily sung it, while throwing his sword (2).

(It was also told that he used to carry around an antidote in case his rivals wanted to poison him; with Bonisolli, it was hard to difference real from fictional extravagances)

A exhilarating feeling of pride and euphoria invaded her at that moment. It didn't matter that sweat run down her back or that her hands trembled, or that she realized now how the hairpins fixing the blonde wig had started to bother her at the end of Act III, because the public had well responded, and even better than expected. At the risk of being considered immodest, she was pretty satisfied with herself. When at the other side of the curtain the applause finally died, after several calls, the cast finally left the stage, heading to their dressing rooms. This was the moment from which personalities that had been attending would profit to make visits to the singers and conductor, many of them profiting of their status to have an early and privileged access. The rest of the audience who wanted an autograph, a selfie or simply talk to the artists would have to wait at the exit. 

Dinner, too. As tradition demanded, this time the cast would celebrate their success all together in yet another nearby restaurant. In the dressing room, after having made her way through the people already waiting for her – to be there already, they had probably left during the curtain calls, or even before. How inconsiderate, she thought. Instead of saying so, the soprano prefered to keep things calm and greeted them before entering in her dressing room, and, at least, free herself from Maddalena's sea of blonde hair, to quote the verse by Illica and Giacosa that would never be the same for her after that morning in Salzburg. But she forced herself to think in the present.

“Someone brought this for you during the interval”, a member of the theatre's staff said, pointing to an envelope in the desk of the dressing room, just between the fan she had used in Act I and a fresh bouquet of lilies. Elena wondered whether if she should look its contents already, but decided to receive the long cue of “privileged” ones before. Only after she had met that crowd and rid herself of Maddalena's dress and corset, and acquired again the looks of a normal individual from the 21th Century, she decided she could give a look to the envelope and its content, which she examined distractedly with the tip of her fingers. 

There were several photos. Of herself. One as Floria Tosca, the other as Violetta Valéry.

The third one was a screenshot. From the Champs-Elysées, last year. Emmanuel, with his leather jacket, his arm around her waist. It seemed the tourists had filmed them, after all. Only their backs were visible, and they weren't so easy to identify. Had it not been for the last photo.

This one was pretty clear. Next to the Grand Palais, where his bodyguards had caught him. Someone had made the photo, which wasn't a shitty screenshot but a image of a reasonable quality. She recognized the two bodyguards. Not only Alphonse, half in the shadows, but also _the other one,_ and he was pretty visible, unlike Alphonse _._ The one from the scandal. Sweat was running down her back again, but this had nothing of exhilarating. There was something else, a little piece of paper with a date and a place scribbled on it. 

***

From the cafe's windows he saw her come, diminutive but determined and, he thought, from the way in which she hold tight a black leather briefcase with one hand and a red umbrella with the other or judging from how fast her legs moved, angry. He could not see her face, in part hidden by a pair of sunglasses, as well as her hair was tucked inside a knit cap not so different from the one he had seen in these screenshots, but he knew it was her. He had never doubted for a moment that she would honor this appointment. The envelope with the photos had served its purpose. It was not an entirely fair thing to do, but he had seen worse. Now she was passing by the window of that café. He had picked it because it wasn't a tourist trap, or a popular place, or a place with customers anyway. It was possible this place, unremarkable and badly litl but with screens separating the tables, was going to close in the next months, or weeks. Or maybe it will remain open, who knows, in one of these unexplained phenomena that allow places like that café to survive. Maybe it was the chocolate. It was good enough. Surprisingly good indeed.

The red umbrella closed, she entered the café, leaving it in the umbrella stand, in the company of other three. Two of them had been forgotten by their owners, probably. She took her knit cap off, running her fingers through her hair. Then she turned around and saw him, with his blue scarf as he had announced. The soprano blinked, as if searching his face in her memory, but didn't quite recognize him. He wondered if she recalled having seen him with the president. She hold her briefcase even tighter against her breast and walked towards his table, still determined and angry. This is where the sound of high heels against the damaged marble floor would have fit, but she was wearing a pair of rubber boots that made a squeaking noise contrasting with her visible anger and annoyance. She let herself fall on the seat in front of him and, opening the briefcase, she took the white envelope and almost threw it on his face, with a dramatic gesture more appropriate for the scene than for real life.

“I would tell you to excuse me because I don't remember where I've seen you before. But I won't”, the soprano finally said. Who had she expected to meet here? Manuel Valls?

“You know, Madame. In France, we use to start our conversations with _Bonjour_ ”.

“But we are not in France right now, Monsieur”.

She almost hissed these last three words, as if they were an insult. Melodramatically again, like she was going to sing _Traditore, traditore tutto tutto già si sà_ (3) . The man, a member of an aristocratic family who in other era had raised the flag of the counter revolution, merely raised his eyebrows. Considering he had survived to way worse outbursts – Opera fans were sometimes extreme, even if they were tamer right now but he didn't think they were that much. Right now, anyway.-, Madame Mendieta's anger was _peccata minuta_. 

“I have noticed that, Madame”. Opening the envelope, he noticed that only two photos of the soprano remained. One from _Tosca_ and the other from Act II, Scene I of Verdi's _La Traviata_. Signed. “Of course you know other copies exist. And the video of your little walk”.

“Of course I know”. Or she feigned to know, or she had feared it and just resigned herself. 

A waiter approached the table to ask if the lady wanted something. She asked for another hot chocolate. 

“Why did you send this to me?” _,_ she asked once the waiter was gone. “How is that you have...”

“Madame, I have my ways, even if my family is not that close to the summits of the State as it was a couple of years ago. And in case you are wondering, _why_ , it's just a warning”, he said, examining the photography of Madame Mendieta as Violetta Valéry. Act II. The heroine accepts to separate herself from the love of her life, the last one, her last opportunity to love, for someone she hasn't even met and whose insistence she ignored until five minutes ago. This, unlike in Violetta's case, is not the question of saving morals or some innocent girl's marriage, and, of course, he's sceptical about if this story can be considered a _great love_ . It was signed with a black marker pen and yet she had managed to almost make a hole with it. _She must have been furious_ , he thought. “No one needs another scandal. Or rather _another_ episode of this scandal, which, in confidence, Madame, it's pretty banal considering the precedents under the Fifth Republic. But no one needs a new episode. Much less the president; his image is already weakened. Imagine his wife learns of this and...”.

The waiter left the soprano's hot chocolate in the table, with some pastries. He saw her contemplating the thick liquid and the ladyfingers in the dish. Maybe she prefered _churros_ to _melindros_ (4) _,_ or whatever these things were called in Barcelona _._ She finally took one and dipped it in the chocolate, but mechanically. 

“She knows. And I don't believe you are worried about _him_ or about public opinion on him.”

“Why not. We used to be relatively close not so much ago, or I thought we were. He looked so presidential, so naturally endowed with all the qualities. Even I forgave him certain... differences with my family. He's always stated that we didn't share the same values. I was useful back then, I suppose. And then he decided to open the presidential palace to half-dressed folks in dubious attires and laughed at everything the heart of _real_ France means. And when he met these youngsters in Saint Martin he doubled down. He's lost his authority in the process, the sacrality of the presidential function is no more... he doesn't understand.”

She snorted, clearly incredulous. Her eyes flashed, as a sort of warning, and looked at him with a hint of contempt.

“I don't see why the condition of being half-dressed or dancing in a certain way can change one's nationality. Unless you have a problem about their skin colour, of course. What's _real_ France by the way?” she made an emphasis in _real_. He ignored her accusation with a gesture of his hand.

“He's turning into Sarkozy under our very eyes. He only lacks to divorce and marrying a singer”; he looked at her to see what effect these last words did. But she was looking away and only a fleeting smile crossed her lips, vanishing almost instantly. “As for real France, do you want to know what real France thinks of your...”. He searched for the word. “Of _him_?”. He unlocked his phone, which all the time had been on the table, and searched a particular video. Then he showed her. The soprano looked down on the image of that woman complaining about what was done about the public money. The video had been watched millions of time in a short time; surely Putin's bots were at work in that aspect, but it was shared widely enough among French people.

“Ah, the lady who talks to the ghosts”, she said, spitefuly. Clearly she had made a little research. “She says a lot of nonsense there, no one with a hint of critical thinking...”.

“It doesn't matter. That's what rural France thinks of him. He'll see it very soon. That's why, Madame, no one needs another scandal” Her hazel eyes flashed again. He thought she was going to throw that half-empty chocolate cup at him. And the biscuits. 

But she pushed away from the table and got up, taking her elegant briefcase. He looked at the initials on the clasp. EM. How typical, how very typical.

“And you'll see it very soon, too”.

She searched for something in her pocket, finally threw a pair of euros at the table.

“I am not going to disappear because of your prejudices, Monsieur”. It was quite curious how she managed to insult him with that word. And she turned her back on him, walking to the entrance with her squeaking boots angrily echoing her mood. Almost forgetting her umbrella but finally realising and taking it from the stand. She walked into the street without looking away.

Definitely the girl had no manners.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) And there we go, yes, Robespierre had a dog named Brount, and yes, certain sources talk about the animal being a (sort of) Great Dane, others about a little Spaniel. I went for the big doggo.  
> (2) All these anecdotes have a real base. The dog and the cat falling from boxes are stories told by the legendary prompter of the Barcelona opera house. During a Tosca performance in Macerata, tenor Fabio Armiliato was accidentaly shot on his leg, mirroring the true-fake execution by firing squad written on the libretto. The rolling from the stretcher happened to Beniamino Gigli (1890-1957) and Franco Bonisolli (1938-2003) was well known for his extravagances and nicknamed Il Pazzo (the Madman). The scene with him throwing his sword after failing to deliver that famous unwritten note and then singin it after the curtain call is real although he threw it during, and not after, Act III.  
> (3) Traitor, everything is discovered. From Act I of Don Giovanni. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oeWCAzOyrqA  
> (4) Melindros is just Catalan for ladyfingers
> 
> Well, that's all for now. Hope to write the next chapter in less time!


	21. Noble lame étincelante

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of never forgetting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I beg my readers to be patient with my English, since something always escapes the corrector. Withot further ado, enjoy the chapter.

**XXI**

**Noble lame étincelante**

  
  


_ O noble lame étincelante, _

_ Pure comme un regard d'enfant, _

_ Combats gardienne vigilante _

_ Et fais l'honneur seul triomphant! _

(Oh noble, shining swords,

pure as the child's gaze

Figth on, you vigilant guardian

And made your honour triumph)

  
  


MASSENET,  _ Le Cid. _

  
  


**November**

He advanced some steps and, standing up, he looked at the ocean of white crosses which covered the field, thousands of white crosses, each one marking a fallen soldier. Every single of them telling the story of one of these young – at not that young – men who left their lives a century ago, among the mud and the blood. The president wondered if they had, in their childhood, read, of heard, about other wars, if they had been bottlefeed with stories about the Franco-Prussian war that had paved the way to the carnage of this and other battlefields. If they had also heard about other wars apart from these, in other eras. Wars always bloody and deathly, even if not in a such gigantic scale. Wars that didn't look like an Épinal engraving.

He wondered whether if they had marched joyfully the first day, like in these films where young soldiers are shown parading at the sound of bands, under the applause of the crowd and with pretty girls throwing them flowers bouquets. It always starts that way, probably. It usually ends like this. A battlefield covered with graves. He knew well this kind of place. The North was full of graveyards like this one. The river that crossed his hometown had given its name to a battle; and the city itself had suffered damage during the three last wars fought in French soil. Among his ancestors there were several of these young men sent to the Great War. Henri, the decorated one, blue-eyed and with chestnut hair, who had been 20 when war began; Fabien, the one from the Libourne dragoons, who went back home without a medal but with his life intact, Ernest, who also was in the cavalry, and of course George William from Bristol, who later married and divorced a French woman.

The tricolor flags leaned in a salute to the fallen, and he bowed his head accordingly. Silence was made, only interrupted by several passing birds. In spite of his dark coat he felt the cold and the humidity deep in his bones. Maybe it was the place, maybe it was his mood.

One year ago, Sylvain and him had come with the idea. Why not a commemoration of World War I, an itinerary to visit the battlefields of the North? And not only the big memorials, which most presidents have visited anyway at one or another point of their time in office. No, he was talking of towns and villages that had not seen a president for decades, or even more. In certain cases, never.

“ Example given, in Morhanges the last statal authority who visited them was a sub-prefect. And that was in 1964!”

There was, last year, a sort of common enthusiasm about the itinerary, incluidng the commision of historians charged with the commemorations for the centenary. Local authorities were delighted, too, since the President would, no doubt, make announcements along the route; about local economy, employement, and so forth and so on.

But that was a year ago. Since then, so many things had changed.

He raised his head again, looked at the white crosses.  _ Via Crucis _ . The way of the cross. That was the other hidden agenda of the trip, that would culminate in a ceremony in Paris, with Heads of State and Government of all Europe. Including from countries which had been neutral a hundred years ago. But yes, that's how they had decided to call it. His penitency. The President going to confront the critics, talking to those who had doubts, to those who even wanted to insult him. Emmanuel found galvanizing contradiction and, at the same time to follow his usual expression, that part of the itinerary was something he wasn't quite enjoying, to put it mildly. Above all, was that a good idea?

He had looked at Sylvain that morning and asked him directly. Sylvain, who lately seemed to be so tired. He had made a curious comment about last night's dinner with local elected officials. He had talked about how Artificial Intelligence affects economy, about the Internet, and he had seen them looking at him, flabbergasted and, if he had read correctly their expression, a little alarmed, a suspicion confirmed only later, when it was too late.

“So, how do you see things, Sylvain, how did that go?”

Sylvain had profited for a moment of rest and was half lying in a sofa, in the prefecture. On a certain aspect this probably reminded of the presidential campaign, when the candidate's team profited from the very few moments of rest. It was incredible in how many places one could fall asleep. But that thing. It wasn't a modern sofa and even in the hypothetical case it had been, Emmanuel had decided to sit in the edge, in a way no human being would find comfortable, with the possible exception of Monsieur le Président himself. Opening his eyes, Sylvain answered, with a hint of melancholy:

“You left them dumbfounded. They said you are brilliant and... How one of them said? A  _ virtuoso _ ”.

“And that's bad because...” The president's hand described a circle. Of course he knew there was something hidden under the praise from the local elected officials. Sylvain sighed, apparently feeling tired, and not only physically. 

“One of them expressed it in a way...” he stopped. Emmanuel was looking at him, expectant, still sitting in that uncomfortable way and his arms crossed, with his sleeves rolled up. Not a reasonable thing to do in this damp prefecture, maybe that was why the cold didn't go during the rest of the day. “He said you are... Do you remember these swords from the 18 th Century they were exhibiting in the hall? All were masterpieces in their genre, sharp and shiny and exquisite, and made of the purest steel. Precious artifacts, all of them”. Sylvain stopped and looked at him, sideways. The president had quietly snorted at the word  _ precious _ , he had been called worse things than a masterpiece coming from a different century. But Sylvain had not finished yet, obviously.

“I'm afraid I don't understand”, Emmanuel said. “That's not all they told you”.

“No is not. They, or rather the one who told me, said all this of you, but also that as brilliant and sharp the sword may be, or as perfectly handled is by the swordsman...”

“Like on the Nevers attack”, the President adds with an humorous touch that Sylvain is incapable to decipher.

“I beg your pardon? We are talking about last night's meeting with the local elected officials or about Paul Féval?”.

“I'm sorry, I was remembering something very funny, and inappropriate for this moment. Please excuse me and go on. So, that sword...”

“... it's a pretty ineffective artifact to confront everyday's problems.” Sylvain avoided to look him in his face when he added. “In other words, they said you were...”

“Disconnected with real life and with that of the people living outside Paris”, the President completed for him. “The usual  _ leitmotiv _ ”. 

Sylvain had sighed and Emmanuel had got up, pacing the room and looking at the cloudy sky, wondering if he could ever shake from him that image of coming from the haughty Parisian political elite, he who wasn't Parisian, or had dedicated his entire life to politics, or didn't consider  _ himself _ as haughty. The weather hadn't improved during the day, even if rain had failed to show up. The ceremony at the battlefield was over, and he was due to dine again with local authorities, and it was clear that, even if he impressed them with his, to use that unnamed elected official words, vocal swordsmanship, that wouldn't be enough. Like that morning in Verdun when he had engaged on one of these dialogues with one member of the crowd, one who didn't seem to find any saving grace in him; he later was told the man was a member of Les Republicains and evidently still regretted the fall of his candidate. At this point he should be used to this kind of surprise, that subterfuge, which he had seen often from the times of the presidential election – that woman at the TV show who presented herself as an anonymous individual but who actually had worked for Fillon's campaign -, is not that he was going to avoid discussion just because of that. But, did that man wanted to discuss anything, in the first place? Emmanuel had his doubts. “You never listen to us”, he had said. Repeatedly. It was useless to answer, several times, that he did listen. No matter what he said, the man would always retort denying that, and complaining against the price of fuel, or about how migrants received too many social aids, all mixed, all nonsensical. And now and then he would repeat the date of the 17 th of November in a tone one would call somber. 

  
  


He greeted the little crowd present; the mayor of the town, a handful of children from the local school, who asked for selfies, that young lady who also wanted one “for her mother” - she was probably lying judging from how she had looked at him, like she wanted to tear up his clothes and lock him somewhere when she could have him handy -, the pensionists who asked him questions, the applause of some of them, and a pair of voices shouting “Macron démission”. All French presidents have heard the word démission associated to their names, at least under the Fifth Republic; he's not that sure about the Third of the Fourth. It was a sort of  _ rite de passage _ . There were worse things of course. De Gaulle and Chirac had been shot – the attack had been more serious on the General, though – and death menaces were something one had to live with; he had lived with them since he was minister. That same morning he had been informed that a group of men had been arrested accused of plotting his murder, in one of the towns he had to visit during the itinerary. 

“To be honest”, Christophe had said during the meeting of the cabinet, which that week was happening in the North “They had the intentions but not the means to really take action”. He looked at his president, uneasy. His nomination had ruffled a considerable amount of feathers and some people had warned him of their doubts about the new minister's aptitudes, but, what options he had? Certain of the possible candidates had refused after Collomb had evolved from the man who had teared up at the inauguration to the one that had ridiculized his authority refusing even to wait the imprescindible time to search for another minister to show up. At the end Castaner had been picked. There was that saying Elena had once used.  _ Con estos bueyes hay que arar _ . Or, one had to play with the cards that were dealt. Leaving aside the play of musical chairs that seemed to be the government these times – Emmanuel was greatly annoyed at the last developments, with new faces shown -, more ado was made about an old lady scolding him – her hand sottly tapping his shoulder - about, again, the 17 th November than about the aborted attack.

  
  


This was one of the aspects that made him wonder about the utility of this trip, since media selected and edited videos to show always the most confrontational aspects of these conversations. It didn't matter than, after, his team would put things in context or that the tone of the discussions was – generally – quite civilized. Even the videos edited by BFM or CNEWS or whatever was the TV station were less confrontational than tweets implied, but in this world no one ever watched entire videos, no one went to the sources and no one read beyond the headlines or... the tweets.  _ I'm afraid I don't understand _ could define his annoyance at this behaviour, and annoyance was dangerous because it lead him to make mistakes. Maybe it was true and he was from a different century after all. 

Brigitte had commented that it was very natural, all of this. “Remember, most trains arrive on hour, most planes don't suffer an accident but no one want to talk in the news about things that go all right”. 

Getting into the car, he greeted the little crowd again and the battlefield was left behind. Once more he was at trouble with the schedule and being late; Emmanuel still wondered now and then, but with less and less frequency, what would the General do. He was know for his strict punctuality, not one minute too late, not one minute too early. Closing his eyes for a moment, he enjoyed the warmth of the interior of the car, that slowly dispelled from his bones that cold feeling that had assaulted him at the memorial. No, he didn't feel tired, even if the rumors still persisted like the ones from last month. They had vanished soon after him going back from his short stay in Honfleur with Brigitte, a tradition they had established twenty years ago and that didn't change with him being elected. A few days in which she allowed him to do anything but rest and barely answering to his phones. Then she had followed him to Strasbourg, at the beginning of that itinerary, just at the cathedral's feet, when they had watched some students displaying a banner in which they invited the President's wife to drink a beer with them.

“Do you think I should have accepted?” she had asked humorously, that night, her arms and legs wrapping him. She was already using his perfume, like always he went on official visits and they wouldn't see each other for days. 

“Maybe”, he had answered, in the same tone.

“Those children were adorable” she went on. “You always get along with children...”

He had smiled, totally unprepared for the question that came after that.

“Is that why you have that woman? After all, being a few years younger than you, she still can...” she stopped but immediately added “Maybe that's what she wants”

That had caught him totally off guard. Since his confession months ago, Brigitte had barely mentioned Elena, and he had done the same when he was in his wife's company. Which leaving aside travels was, logically, most of the time. His lover, on her side, avoided to mention Brigitte. Thus these two part of his life, of their lives, is separated at least apparently. He hesitated, not knowing exactly what to say.

“I don't think she does. It wouldn't be good for her career and, as you said once, she'd never dump it”

No, she probably didn't, and always had been very keen in taking her pills, she had told him once. Brigitte had hold him even tighter, and conversation had stopped there. But what about him? The president sank deeper in his seat. This was, again, a position no one on Earth with his probable exception would find comfortable, but, as people said of him, he wasn't made to follow the rules. Not closely, at least.

He had made the decision many years ago, when he had made that promise to Brigitte, _ I will come back and marry you _ ; it had been, yes, a sacrifice. His mother had held this against Brigitte as the last resource, when she had asked her to leave him alone, at least, until his eighteenth birthday; to no effect because it was too late for that. It had been also one of the things that had made her doubt before finally accepting his proposal of marriage. She had been the one taking more risks when she had decided to left behind her already settled life for the risk of a relationship with that young man, the brave one, the one who had paid the most. For the ultimate transgression. Not having children of his own was his sacrifice to their love. Emmanuel loved his stepchildren and especially that bunch of step grandchildren who protested when he insisted in giving them books as a gift; if his blood didn't run through their veins, it didn't really matter. They were his family, as much as his own. The matter had been settled.

However. He closed his eyes. 

  
  


In the remote case she ever wanted a child; in the remote case they both agreed to take that step, in the remote case the child was born, and in the remote case he could held that child in his arms, how would that feel like? There was a sudden warmth that surprised him and goes beyond the physical one that now invaded the interior of his car, something that almost made his heart ache and his stomach turn while he almost felt in his arms the weight of that imaginary child that will never be.

“Monsieur? We are approaching the memorial” 

He almost welcomed his aide's voice, which brought him back to reality. He stiffed. Another town, another memorial to visit before night fell, another homage to the men who, for a hundred years, had slept together under the modest white crosses. The car stopped and he came out, shorty followed with the soldiers holding tricolor, leaning flags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has little references, however, if you are interested in the president's ancestors who fought during WWI:  
> https://www.lemonde.fr/centenaire-14-18/article/2018/11/05/macron-et-ses-ancetres-les-poilus_5378857_3448834.html  
> Of Mr. Robertson, we have talked before, but anyway:  
> https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/world-news/french-president-emmanuel-macrons-great-10794502  
> Feel free to comment, criticise, etc etc. And until the next chapter!


	22. Lontano, lontano, lontano

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all about having innapropriate thoughts while rehearsing sacred music. Since we are already in hell, it doesn't matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, two reminders. One, English is not my first language. Be patient with mispelling and other ortographical and/or grammar mistakes.  
> Two, this is a fictional history. With a bunch of real characters thrown in, with "accurate" stuff now and then, but fictional after all.  
> Ah, and reminder three (I know, I never fulfill my promises). Opera references or whatever the kind can be found at the final notes. Most of them anyway.  
> Enjoy, all that said. :)

**XXII**

**_Lontano, lontano, lontano_ **

  
  
  
  


_Lontano, lontano, lontano,_

_Sui flutti d'un ampio oceano,_

_Fra i roridi effluvi del mar,_

_Fra l'alghe, fra i fior,_

_Fra le palme,_

_Il porto dell'intime calme,_

_L'azzurra isoletta m'appar._

(Far away, far away, far away,

over the waves of a wide-spreading ocean,

among the perfumes exhaled by the sea,

among the palm trees, the flowers, the seaweed

a portal of peace and seclusion

the blue isle seems waiting for me).

_Mefistofele,_ BOITO, Act III

  
  


“When this work was first performed in the United Kingdom” Sobinov says, quite abruptly, once he is greeted by the orchestra at the stage of the Teatro Costanzi “the critics were curiously divided. It's almost amusing. For one of them, and I quote, it was _the most beautiful piece of sacred music since Mozart's Requiem_ . Or should I say Mozart-Süssmayr?” he made a pause, before adding “... And the critic from the _Morning Post_ , on the other hand, wrote that it was a series of barks and yells, culminated with, I beg your pardon, Madame Mendieta, for we don't think your singing can be defined like that, the canine vociferations of the soprano during the _Libera me_ (1)”.

There's a general fit of laughter, while Elena smiles uncomfortably. She feels Olga's hand on her shoulder, refraining her from retorting something at the Maestro that she could regret later. No, it's not possible he's insinuating she's... going to bark her way through what someone she doesn't remember has described as the desperate, final cry of Humanity asking for redemption. It's kind of ironical that Olga's return to the stage has to be with a Requiem. That morning in the hotel, she has held the mezzosoprano in her arms, unable to say anything more comforting than “I'm sorry for your loss”. Olga looked skinnier, and profoundly tired, when she had embraced her in the hotel, before going to the opera house. She knew that the phrase – that she had already used on a Telegram message of the same tone - was commonplace, but the soprano never could bring herself to say anything more in such circumstances. But if Olga was bothered by her evident awkwardness when she had to confront herself with illness or death, she didn't say anything. Only that she felt numb now that her father has died, and that, still, she was incapable to go to bed before 2 a.m. “I'm still under the impression that he may need me during the night”. She taps Olga's hand, still smiling in that awkward way, and her eyes are lost in the contemplation of what can be seen of the frescoes adorning the ceiling from there. A series of allegorical figures celebrating the dramatic arts, a work by Annibale Borngoli - a relatively minor painter – who, for some reason, had included the Olympics as one of said expressions. All surrounding the giant chandelier – one of the biggest in Europe, a member of the opera house's staff had told her once – made of the most exquisite glass.

“As for the rest”, the conductor says, more seriously, “some scholars have defined Verdi's Requiem as one of his operas, in sacred garb of course, others like the only agnostic Mass for the Dead and, most of them, fortunately, see it as it is: a work of genius... Which you shouldn't listen while driving of course. That _Dies irae_ can lead you to have a crash; there are studies about that particular aspect, go figure”.

There's a second fit of laughter, this less general than the previous one. Heavens know why. Definitely, Elena is not in the mood of appreciating the Maestro's humor right now. What's his problem with crashes.

“What I wanted to say is... if this music is inappropriate for the Church, because it's so dramatic, more dedicated to the living than to the dead, and not devout, or resigned enough despite using the text from the Roman Catholic Lithurgy, then so much the worse for them. The Church I mean. Come on, ladies and gentlemen, I want to you to be ferocious, tragic, almost... blasphemous. I want you to be the voice of Humanity showing their collective fangs – hence your canine vociferations, dear friends, but please do it armonically, don't really take my word as a permission to bark - to the Almighty, I don't want you to ask God for mercy but to _order_ him to take you under his wing because he put _us_ here. I don't want an ounce of humility when you ask God to save you. That's _my_ idea of the Requiem, and now, let's work on it”.

Sobinov raises his baton, his romantic aura and his words somewhat spoiled by the ugly sweater he's wearing – it's too early for ugly Christmas sweaters, but he wears one of these things with reindeers and snowflakes - , and the cellos start, very quietly – one almost would say muted -in a slow phrase which the strings repeat, as the chorus starts to sing in a hush, _Requiem aeternam dona eis_... Sitting on her chair like the rest of soloists, Elena follows the score with her eyes and waits for their turn to intervene. She knows the Requiem well enough. It's not her favourite work by Verdi, and every conductor has “a vision” about what should be. It's cold in Rome these days, like everywhere else in the Northern Hemisphere she guesses. While her eyes are following the familiar path shown by the music notes in the sheet, her mind goes back to a couple of days ago in Paris, where it was cold and damp, too. A sudden warmth spreads through her body.

_The framed poster with a paradisiac landscape in the bedroom – a palm tree under a blue sky and white sand surrounded by turquoise water -, was almost the only colourful note of this room, deprived of any personality. People – the apartment was well known by singers and other performers who happened to spend some time, even hours in Paris, just like Jack Lemmon's was in that film, only that no one lives here - come and go, without leaving memories behind. Furniture was scarce and impersonal; the double bed covered by a dark grey duvet the sofa of the same color, a desk and a chair, a diminutive kitchen with a microwave and a bathroom which. in stark contrast with all the rest, had a wide bathtub. All was clean, almost chirurgically clean, and had a chilling effect on her, despite the apartment being heated and the thick, soft white carpet feeling agreeable under her feet. She had got rid of her shoes in the little entrance hall, so her heels didn't made noise. It was one of the usual precautions; never bother the neighbours. But the neighbours were accustomed, it seemed, to certain, er, noises, and they rarely complained._

The four soloists stand up. _Kyrie eleison_ , the tenor sings in the first place, followed by the bass' _Christe eleison_ . Elena is the next and her voice soars over the orchestra and chorus. She has to sing _Kyrie eleison_ , just like the tenor. _Lord have mercy_. Olga is the last to enter and she has a slight wobble that she promptly overcomes. Elena can't see if her friend is tearing up or not. They are pleading, the fourth of them, but they are pleading separately, like if all of them were asking a different kind of mercy. She holds the score in her hands: an original, not a photocopy. Certain conductors... don't like copies, they don't understand one is not always able to pay for them; not her, the times where acquiring them could be a problem are behind. But the members of the chorus!... She doesn't know if Sobinov is one of these maestros. But she has heard stories.

S _he shouldn't be here, the soprano had thought, sinking on the sofa, her arms surrounding her legs. Not in this city, not in this apartment, not waiting for him. Indeed, after what she thought was a dignified but actually could be looked as melodramatic gesture at that aristocrat's face she had meditated about that warning and she feels it hanging over her head, like the proverbial sword, ready to fall on her, on him. Maybe telling him was the most wise move, but, would she? Or leave him without telling why, like one of these heroines of the operas she plays would do. But she doesn't wanted to. She wanted to enjoy, enjoy while it lasts, like Francesca had said. But Francesca also had said she shouldn't obsess about this and... well, that part of her advice had been dutifully ignored._

Sobinov seems to crouch slightly, like if he was preparing for a leap; and there it is. After the soloists' dramatic plea for mercy, the chorus and the orchestra thrown themselves in that ferocious _Dies irae_ . The outuburst always impresses her, like the very first time she listened to this Requiem, so different, indeed, to Mozart's one. Is like a storm making tremble the entire auditorium. It's partly due to the huge bass drum which is being hitted repeatedly. She can't see the player which is on her back, but she's sure he has a huge smile on his face and enjoys this. And after the chorus hisses their warning about, the trumpets distributed in the boxes, offstage, start playing. The conductor has looked at them and given the indication. They have an eerie effect, always, even in placed with way worse acoustics than Rome's Opera house, which always had a good reputation in this aspect. Today the auditorium's lights are on, but on the evening of the performance, they'll be off and only the boxes where the trumpets are hidden will be illuminated. The rest of the orchestra joins now to the call and the chorus shouts. _Tuba mirum_.

_A warning. Who cared about warnings anyway. He had come, at last, late as usual, as silent as she had been, and, when her lips joined his in the hall of the apartment – his hair was still damp and he still smell of the rain which had fallen on him in one of these commemorations during the morning, after his long itinerary. Was the one with Merkel or the one with Trudeau? She actually didn't care... – she decided to ignore it. Pushed back that man from Barcelona in the depths of her mind, concentrated herself in Emmanuel and his arms which surrounded her waist, Emmanuel and his hands, which were undressing her. And they had fallen on the bed, under the framed picture with that image of an unknown paradise; she could have said this was her desert island, had she actually cared about such things._

Olga stands up, her voice firm but her trouble visible; it is fortunate that this emotion serves her in _Liber scriptus_ . As the chorus whispers _Dies irae_ behind her back, as the strings sound like a swarm of extremely angry bees, the mezzosoprano pleads her case, stammers, it's overwhelmed by the burden of her emotion. Hers, that of Olga Novikova? Not probably. That of her character, if one can speak of characters in a Requiem. That of the part of Humanity she's supposed to play, if one follows Sobinov's interpretation. But then the music of _Dies irae_ gets another reprise, and the part of the Humanity Olga is supposed to represent is silenced, taken aback.

“ _I made you a promise, last time in Salzburg”, he had said then. “Or did you? I don't remember who did exactly” He was probably lying, he who always remembered everything. But in case she didn't, he clarified what he wanted immediately, or rather what_ she _wanted. And then... well, she had to admit, he had fulfilled that promise about enjoying her sitting on his..._

She almost misses her cue for the tercet this time, but recovers herself quick enough; the conductor's eyes flash at her during a second. Better not to be distracted again. Elena blushes, makes a little wave with her right hand as an apology. Her question ( _Quid sum miser tum dicturus?_ ) is cut short by the chorus in an overwhelming _Rex tremendae_ . This is the point where Sobinov has asked them to verge in blasphemy when addressing to the divinity and their collective _Salva me, font pietatis_ is ferocious in extreme, not a bark but a roar instead. The conductor's lips are moving. _Salva me_ , he sings too, in a very low, almost mute voice, like the one of the cellos in the Introitus. _Save me, source of all mercy_. The chorus seems mesmerized. 

“ _Do you know where this photo was taken?”, she had asked, later. “It's...”_

“ _Beautiful, of course; I don't know, why should I? Maybe it's the Caribbean, maybe the Pacific... maybe the Indian ocean. It's difficult to say”_

_Maybe it wasn't a French possession at all, but this idea apparently didn't cross his mind._

“ _Have you ever wondered how it would to be, living on one of these places?”_

“ _No. Not really, not for a long time. There are no opera houses in paradise”._

“ _I see”._

Olga looks Elena directly in her eyes for a moment and smiles in a sad way while their gentle duet begins. It's much better than the conventional _I'm sorry for your loss_ , that combination of their voices. This is one of the best things of working with her; how their voices always blend perfectly, they seem to be born to sing together. Leaving aside, of course, how wonderful is having her as a friend, in this errant and solitary life of hers. However, she never has considered telling her about her _romance -_ how old fashioned that word seems anyway -; Elena thinks she's better out of all this. 

“ _In certain ways, though, is like living in an island. L'Élysée. Or a prison, some of my antecessors saw the presidential palace that way. You are in the middle of the city yet separated by the gardens... Nothing comes to you, from that city. Not a noise. Nothing. And you are there in your bureau, ten hours a day”_

“ _Are you complaining?”_

“ _No. Not exactly. This is, after all, what I wanted, remember? But still...”_

How beautiful the tenor`s voice is? He has stepped in the last moment for another singer, and Elena has seen him praying before the rehearsal. _Praying_ , yes. Of all the soloists, he seems to be the only one who really minds every single of these words, who really believes in that God they are yelling at. She has seen him frowning at Sobinov's words about blasphemy, but anyway he seems professional enough to follow the conductor's interpretation. However, no divinity can hide his voice is not strong enough when confronted to the orchestra and the chorus. Its sound is drowned. Culpa rubet vultus meus, he sings, plaintively, his face reddened by the effort and not by shame.

_Ashamed? No, she's never ashamed, why should she. He had pleased her, and after a short respite they had made love again. There was no urgency this time, they have the entire night, he argues, without her asking to which miracle she owes the privilege. Maybe because he just finished that itinerary across the battlefields and next week he'll be gone, far, far away at the other side of the world, in that G-20 summit. Isn't that incredible, how the powerful of Earth are something similar to a family, meeting in certain special occasions, but not really that close? As for her, her schedule would lead her far from France. Elena had clung to his body, leaner and sharper than the last time. And more tense. What he is preparing for?_

The bass is a young man with a real bass voice, critics say, even the most ferocious ones who immediately add _but he's not subtle enough_ . These days there's the pretension of basses, real ones – not the baritones passing as such – being an endangered species. If only his diction was better, he could be perfect, but his Latin has still to improve. Sobinov makes a gesture to the chorus and the _Dies irae_ breaks again, to reinforce the message. Her mind still goes back and forth, back and forth, during the next movements. The _Lacrymosa_ taken originally from _Don Carlos_ , but dropped after the dress rehearsals of said opera (2) – how the good society of Paris had caused that, it was somewhat amusing -; Olga is the one who leads them in said movement. The warmth of the _offertorio_ , the fugue of the _Sanctus_ , her other duet with the mezzo. That radiant _Lux aeterna_ during which she rests, because the last movement of the _Requiem_ falls entirely on the soprano's shoulders.

_When would they see each other again? He didn't answer, because he doesn't know. It's unlikely they are using this apartment again, he stated._

_Then what?, she had asked. They'd find the way, was his answer. Elena wasn't reassured._

Thus started her great moment, with a movement which had been also present in that collective effort from young composers after Rossini's death. This was how _Libera me_ was born, and in certain way how the Requiem had been first brought out. Now Elena was alone, deeply alone and fighting for the survival of Humanity's soul, at least in Sobinov's vision. Behind her, the chorus sings like fear dominated them. The conductor fixes her eyes on her face and Elena's mind is forced finally to concentrate solely in the music; like a deer looking at the lights approaching, it's now her turn of being mesmerized. _Tremens factus sum ego, et timeo,_ she repeats _. I quake and tremble with fear..._ She really doesn't know it, but she sounds legitimately, mortally afraid. Carmen would tell her later; afraid, defenseless, like someone that has nothing else left but ask for some mercy. It's the opposite of ordering the divinity to be benevolent because that's his work. But somewhat Sobinov seems pleased she has ignored his indications. Her desperate plea dies in a soft et _timeo_ which somewhat manages to be audible. And then, she knows, comes a long pause indicated in the score. A dramatic silence in which nothing is heard.

_Bad choice, madame. I had warned you._

_This was the message she found in her mobile phone, the day after, just before flying to Rome. The number was private. Unknown._

_Dies irae_ , the orchestra and chorus answer after the pause, with savage wrath. The storm unchains over the soprano's – or whatever part ot the Humanity she's supposed to represent - head and she squares her shoulders, frightened but resolute. There's no mercy to be expected, so she prepares to fight her way to salvation. If that's the correct vision anyway. So she keeps asking for salvation, for eternal light, until the Requiem, if such expression is allowed, dies in a hushed way, still unresolved about redemption.

There's a troubled silence and a collective applause from the chorus and the limited audience. Sobinov is clearly pleased. Elena's eyes are still fixed on the void.

Sitting in the parterre, Chus blinks and asks to Carmen: 

“Wasn't that too melodramatic? After all, and if I recall it correctly, Verdi didn't want a too operistic performance of this work.”

The manager shrugs.

“Everyone has their own interpretation of the Requiem”, she replies. “Conductors, anyway”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Quoted by Charles Osborne in his analysis of the complete works of Verdi. So, yes, the Morning Post actually wrote about canine vociferations.  
> (2) Yes, the Lacrymosa originates in a duet written originally for Don Carlos. The cut of several numbers of that opera after the dress rehearsal in Paris was due to the non-written rule that performances should end in time so the public could catch the train back home.   
> Well, that was all. Hope you enjoyed and until the next chapter!  
> Feel free to comment, critizise, etc, etc.


	23. La maîtresse du roi!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing can remain hidden for so much time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter today! And maybe ther will be more this week, depending on the time I have to type it (I am so old fashioned that I still handwrite the first drafts).  
> As usual, you'd better remember that English is not my first language. And the totally fictional part of course. Notes at the end, as usual.

**XXIII**

**_La maîtresse du Roi!_ **

  
  
  


_La maîtresse du roi!... Dans l'abîme creusé,_

_Sous un piège infernal ma gloire est engloutie,_

_et de mon triste coeur l'espérance est sortie_

_ainsi que d'un vase brisé._

(The King's lover! In what abyss

in what infernal trap my glory has fallen

and of my sorrowful heart hope has vanished

like from a broken glass)

_Ange si pur_ . DONIZETTI. _La Favorite_ (1).

  
  


Unaware of the storm that was forming over their heads and that would hit her minutes later, Carmen was having breakfast and waiting for the call from Paris, or rather from the artistic director of the Opéra de Paris. Singers, as well as conductors, have the dubious privilege of their lives being planified to the maximum. With years of anticipation, they know were they will be in a certain day, in a certain hour, at a certain opera house. And even if life often got across their plans, all their lives turned around that schedules. In Elena's case, and even if she wasn't due to sing again at the Opéra during the next months, she was announced for a new production of Donizetti's _Maria Stuarda_ at the beginning of the next season. It was probably her least favorite of the so-called _Tudor trilogy_ (2) , at least for Elena, who prefered _Anna Bolena_ and never had sung _Roberto Devereux_ . Carmen knew, however, that she really enjoyed the confrontation scene and that the moment in which her character threw to her rival the insult _Vile bastard_ she maybe put a bit too much of emphasis. It's not that she ever had fight with the singers playing the role of Elizabeth I – like the one at the first rehearsals in Donizetti's presence (3) did - but still, she overacted a bit too much. 

Regardless of hers, and Elena's opinion of the role and the opera itself, she had been preparing herself for a while, since this was a new critical edition, they were told. Elena even had read a pair of biographies of Mary, something that she didn't before, and told Carmen that, in her opinion, the Queen of Scots had been tragically stupid, but that she had grown fond of her, somewhat. This morning the artistic director of the Opéra had send Carmen a SMS – which was kind of old fashioned, but that how the man was – telling her that there were news regarding that production. So she was waiting for his call, while looking at the reviews for the Messa da Requiem in the morning newspapers.

Speaking about old fashioned things, she was looking at the printed newspapers, rather than reading them online. So far, they were good. Later Chus would inform her of what was being told in social networks. And there was that interview Elena should do in a well known Italian talk-show, that same evening. Fifteen minutes. For the moment, there was already another project on their horizon: during the dinner posterior to the performance, Sobinov had told them about a tour with the orchestra and chorus of La Monnaie; Norma, he had said, with the same cast that sung it in Brussels and Paris: Elena, Mrs. Moser and Mr. Brown. _Interesting_ , Elena had said, even if later had commented that she wished Alan-the-harasser stepped down. The conductor - no longer wearing the frac neither that ugly Christmas sweater, but an impossible combination last night: blue navy pants with a pistachio-colored turtleneck – seemed to be the driving force behind that _Norma_ . Which, instead of being in concert form, would be staged, in a minimalistic production, he had said. Mentally, Carmen started to search for a place in their schedule for that – still - hypothetical _Norma_.

She took a sip of her expresso and reached for the last of the newspapers. The cover showed an image of yesterday's protests in France, that supposedly big demo. If only 300,000 people had showed up, then Carmen didn't understand what the fuss was about. She remembered the strikes of 1995, which really had impressed her; but this didn’t look the same. Without a further thought for these individuals wearing a yellow vest, she left the cup in the table and searched for the interior pages dedicated to culture and for the critic of Verdi's _Requiem_ , the last she would read that morning. Ah, there it was, sandwiched between the _Attila_ (4) from Torino and _La Favorite_ from la Scala. Thank God Italy was, no matter the government, a civilized country and they still cared for properly reviewing opera performances.

Carmen had already read the first paragraph of the review when her telephone rang. 

“Yes, I'm at the hotel”, she said after the man on the other side of the line greeted her. 

“ _Ah Madame! Have you seen the news? Excuse my bluntness but I am at a loss for words, I didn't expect this from... It's regrettable, certainly regrettable, but...”_

“I've seen them, yes”, Carmen answered distractedly. The man wasn't being blunt, he was being vague. She casted a regretful glance over her coffee. “But I wouldn't say this is a catastrophe. I've seen way worse”.

“ _Of course, Madame Barros, but... in the present circumstances, you'll surely understand our concern”._

“Absolutely”, she replied, without really understanding anything. It was not that these guys were going to set the Opéra on fire. Or were they? She really didn't know anything about the protesters, other than they wore that definitely not pretty yellow thing and they opposed a fuel tax. Or the government. Or both. It was Elena who watched the French broadcast stations, not her. Anyway she didn't fully understand where the man was going and why she should care about. She closed the newspaper and put it aside; well, the yellow was hideous but it was kind of brilliant PR to pick these vests as a symbol. You could see them from afar, like when the “deplorables” picked these red caps with Make America Great Again in white letters. One could instantly recognize them... There was something that could be defined as a sigh or relief in the other side of the line.

“ _How understanding you are...”_

“It's part of my job” Carmen answered, her patience already growing thinner and annoyed the man had, apparently, chosen her to vent about his états d'âme.

“ _Then it will be less painful to the possibility, and I say the possibility, of Madame Mendieta withdrawing from the title role of the new production of Donizetti's Maria Stuarda. I know this is.. unfair, but...”_

“I beg your pardon?”

“ _This is a State owned company. I was named by the previous president, and my successor will be named by the sitting one. So we can't afford, if all this is confirmed, to be accused of favoritism”_.

What was he talking about?

“Favoritism?”

“ _I know, I know”_ the man went on while it slowly dawned on her that they were talking about two different matters _“Madame Mendieta doesn't need to be favored in such a way, as she has her own merits, but given the present situation we should prepare to the worst, we don't want to be accused to having casted her only to please the President”_.

As Carmen opened her mouth to reply, even if she had no idea what to say, the door opened and Chus entered the room, his precious Ipad in his hands and looking worried. He stopped short when he realized she was talking to someone in the phone. 

“I must talk to Madame Mendieta, of course, if we have to take a decision later”.

“I understand, Madame” his relief was evident again. “I'll wait for your call then”.

The call ended, Chus came to sit or rather left himself fall on the armchair next to her.

“Could you explain me please what is happening?” her voice gradually raised with every word, so at the end of the sentence Carmen was almost yelling.

Avoiding to look the manager in her eyes, Chus put the Ipad in her hands. She was going to joke about him letting anyone to touch one of his precious devices when she looked at the screen. 

She recognized the trenchcoat before she did the same with Elena. Then she recognized the other three individuals, or rather two of them. The third man, grey-haired, wasn't familiar to Carmen. There was a second image, one with Elena and the president, his arm surrounding her waist. All under a huge, black headline: “FAVORITA DEL RE?” (5). Very smart idea to use a well-known verse from a (relatively) well known opera. Carmen recognized the web, that of a far-right leaning Italian outlet, popular among _leghisti_.

“This” Chus took a deep breath “Appeared at midnight in that outlet very popular among Salvini's fans.” Carmen was still trying to assimilate that the images were real, that Elena had been hiding all this from her. “After five minutes, it was posted on their Twitter account. It was instantly retweeted by other leghisti, Trumpists, brexiteers, French extreme right, French extreme left, and Putin's bots in general, apart from Yellow Vests of course, who also took it to Facebook”.

Facebook. Who on Earth used Facebook these days. Of course Elena had a profile, but...

“Early in the morning the news started to appear in French media, which is, right now, dividing their time between this and yesterday's protests”.

Carmen was still speechless. Her eyes veiled, she raised instinctively her head and looked at the counter, where, as usual, the portrait of her late husband; but of course no help was going to come from there. She swallowed and realized she was in the verge of tears. Oh _please_. Not now.

“Naturally” Chus went on “French Twitter is being... How I'd put this?... A carnage. All _his_ enemies are having a field day with this. As I said you, extreme right, extreme left, yellow vests... At least three of the main trending topics are related to the two photos”

Of course, she was only the mean to attack the other person, the secondary target, the indirect way to harm. But she was, for the moment, the one who was losing a contract and the one suffering direct harm.

“But weren't they supposed to protest yesterday?”, Carmen asked, feeling a little lost. Her fingers curled around the screen, and Chus was tempted to take it brutally from her hands; he managed to control himself.

“You haven't read their Facebook groups”, Chus said in a somber tone “And in a certain way is better you remain far from these; they are more virulent after having seen the photos, and... By the way, stay also far from Elena's social networks. Two thirds of the comments right now are insults, menaces or worse. I've never seen so many death threats together. I have muted the notifications and blocked eighty accounts. Most of them bots. It's worse with _him_ , maybe. I didn't check, that's not my job. But I feel sorry for his community manager”.

Her grip on the Ipad finally loosened, or rather she dropped it, but Chus was agile enough to catch the device before hitting the floor. He discreetly cleaned the screen with his sleeve. Covering her face with her hands, Carmen felt totally impotent, defenceless. She didn't fully believe what was happening or how to stop it, but now she understood why the artistic director of the Opéra had been so embarrassed. She understood other things too. 

The door opened again, this time giving way to Elena herself, Elena, inverosimile calm, her mobile phone in her hand and her hair barely retained by a red plastic clip. 

“Can I borrow your charger, Carmen? My phone had been dead since yesterday in the evening, I can't find mine and... Ah, there”; she had just seen the charger on the counter. Elena plugged it and finally turned to look at them and seemed surprised to see their expressions.

“Whose is the funeral?”, she asked, her hands in her hips. So she was, apparently, unaware of what kind of shitstorm was her life right now. Carmen weighted her options; she could explain her carefully or taking a more direct, brutal approach.

“Let's say that the artistic director of the Opéra has just called me and asked for Mary Stuart's head. Or rather, yours. He thinks you'd make them a great favor if you discreetly withdrawn from the new production”. At her side, Chus mumbled an insult, probably in Galego; Carmen couldn't decipher it and, anyway, it didn't matter. She saw that warning flash on Elena's eyes, mixed with incomprehension, but she didn't allow her the time to ask her why that sudden petition of a withdrawal “They are afraid to be accused of favoritism, since you are the President's... friend”. Before Chus could help it, she took again the Ipad from his hands and walked to Elena, who suddenly looked pale. The manager put the screen almost under her nose, forcing her to look at it. Her eyes were instantly glued to the images. “Please tell me that's all”, Carmen said, without real hope “A walk, even if I disapprove you let yourself to be seen near that man, whose presence is like poison for everyone who... Don't look at me that way, I'm talking about the bodyguard, not the President”. But who knew, these days... “We can manage this, say that this is a calumny, that you have been friends for years and that it's misogynist...

Elena exchanged a look with Chus. The last hint of hope of all this being a huge misunderstanding vanished. 

“Ah, so _she_ told _you_!”

“Because I was sure you wouldn't agree with...”

“With you having an affair with someone who not only happens to be married and a World leader but also someone who picks who's going to be the artistic director for one of Europe's most important opera houses, which now won't hire you because they are afraid of the accusation of being too eager to please him?” Carmen made a pause to breathe more and yell less “Yes, I don't agree with it, you were right”. For goodness sake. The manager massaged her own temples. The only thing that came to her mind were two words: _damage control, damage control, damage control_...

“Ah!”, she said “The interview”.

These fifteen minutes on the Italian talk show maybe could be useful, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Ange si pur was actually written for Donizetti's opera Le Duc d'Alba, never performed during his lifetime. The composer later incorporated it to La Favorite (better known in its Italian version La Favorita). In this aria Fernand, the male protagonists, recalls his love for Leonore, with whom at some point he was suppossed to marry and that was actually the King's lover.  
> (2) A "trilogy" formed by Anna Bolena, Maria Stuarda and Roberto Devereux. There's a fourth Donizetti opera with a Tudor background, Elisabetta al castello di Kenilworth.  
> (3) The "confrontation scene" of Maria Stuarda is a fictional interview between Mary Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I, culminating in Mary calling Elizabeth a vile bastard (vil bastarda) after a exchange of mutual insults. According to tradition, and during the rehearsals before the premiere in 1835, the singers Anna del Serre and Giuseppina Ronzi De Begnis physically attacked each other after that (in)famous "vil bastarda" bit. After much hitting at each other, Del Serre was confined in her bed during several days.  
> (4) Attila is one of Verdi's early operas.  
> (5) Which is exactly how the aria that opens this chapter starts in its Italian version and from where yours truly picked her pseudonym.
> 
> Well, until the next chapter. As usual, feel free to comment, critizice, etc etc. And, as I said, I'm going to try and post one more this week. Now yes until the new chapter...


	24. Stride la vampa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of political cartoons, more damage control and historical inaccuracy (and a dog).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, first things first, I have to apologize because this chapter should have been uploaded before last weekend but had technical difficulties. That said, enjoy, and as usual be patient with mispelling and other grammar accidents. Opera and other references you could be lost in are clarified in the final notes.
> 
> Customary disclaimer about this being a fictional story with a fictional soprano, etcetera, etcetera. 
> 
> That said, enjoy.

**XXIV**

**_Stride la vampa_ **

  
  


_ Stride la vampa! La folla indomita _

_ corre a quel fuoco lieta in sembianza! _

_ Urli di gioia intorno echeggiano; _

_ cinta di sgherri una donna s'avanza! _

(The unrestrained mob

runs to that fire, their faces all happy!

Shouts of joy re-echo around;

Surrounded by ruffians, a woman comes forward!)

Stride la vampa. VERDI. _ Il Trovatore _ .

  
  
  


As the make-up artist applied the last touches of shine control powder, Elena looked at her own image in the mirror, in that room of the Italian broadcast station. Following Carmen's advice, she had dressed carefully to appear innocence personified with her pink dress and her discrete lipstick and mask, which made her lashes look larger and – the manager thought - her eyes wider. Indeed, the make-up was deceithfully elaborated, in all its apparent modesty: there were no imperfections left, nothing that could indicate a little flaw in her skin. The image the mirror gave seemed a childish, duller version of herself. She disliked it instantly, but it was not the first time the soprano was confronted with playing a character she didn't entirely like. An annoying music came from the tv flat screen hanging from one of the walls. That was one of the most popular talk shows in Italy, Carmen had said after arranging the interview. With live music and all that. Currently, a sort of Eros Ramazzotti wannabe was on screen, singing a cover of a song she had heard already multiple times the last few days in the radio. The studio was blue, with a huge white sofa where the presenter – red haired and with curls worthy of a Rococo porcelain shepherdess – was sitting, probably with relief, given she had spent the last thirty minutes perched on her stiletto shoes while mediating in a very animated debate between six collaborators of the show. Maybe this tv program was not the more adequate for an opera singer to make her appearance or talk about the Requiem, but good publicity for selling albums, including the future release of the Requiem. In case there was one, of course. Naturally all that was before the far-right outlet published the incriminating photos, which were the source of her current headache and, probably, of the appreciative looks that practically every individual of both sexes had casted at her since she had put her feet in the studio. Most of them, even when she had arrived and was not – yet – dressed like the cheap surrogate for a bootleg Disney princess, had seemed disappointed. Evidently, they had expected more, even if they had graphic evidence of how she looked out of the scene.

She had still to wait in the green room, where a member of the staff guided her. Carmen and Chus would wait there. The screen in the green room showed now the interview before her own. A best-seller author of historical thrillers who was talking about his last novel, which took place in half of Europe and mixed the Templars, the Cathars and the Illuminati. Chus looked at the screen with a frown; he had developed an aversion to the first two categories of historical fiction and felt a certain indifference for the other one; too many books written about all of them, probably. Unfortunately he only had told Elena about his preferences after she had given him several books about them as a gift, in different occasions. He mumbled something for himself when the writer mentioned something about a Lignum Crucis which occupied a central place in his novel.

“Remember what I told you”, Carmen said, looking around her and putting her hand before her mouth. Yes, they had been talking about this in the hotel. Don't say a word about politics, duck every single question about the protests in France - Elena failed to fully understand them, anyway -, and, above all, there is no problem in going for a walk with an old friend. This probably wouldn't solve the bit about what the artistic director of the Opéra had called favoritism, quite the contrary. But, anyway, her sudden difficulties with the board of the Parisian opera house weren't public... yet. All summed up, she had to dismiss the rumors and blatantly lie. Fine, that could do. But she saw, from Carmen's nervousness, that her manager wasn't sure of what could come up of the interview. Meanwhile the writer's voice still came up from the speakers.

“ _... But during my research I discovered that legend about what one of the men who stepped on the scaffold after the execution of Louis XVI screamed while dipping his handkerchief in the King's blood: Jacques de Molay, you are avenged!  _ (1) _ ” _

“Ha!”, Chus rolled his eyes “Nonsense. I would like to know what's his source ”.

The two women looked at him, puzzled.

“What?” he answered “Inaccuracy is inaccuracy. Just because one reads a thing in a book, or in the Internet, doesn't mean it's true”. With trembling fingers that betrayed his uneasiness – as much as he detested the Templars or the Cathars, or writers without any idea of how to do a proper research, they couldn't be blamed for the present situation - he took his Ipad, ready to post extracts of the interview in Elena's social networks as it took place.

  
  


***

“In fact, it's a blessing we are living in this era when all this repertoire is being recovered”, Elena said, internally struggling to keep a relatively comfortable position in the sofa. Probably the host was accustomed, but the material and her dress seemed to be made to repel each other; in consequence, she was trying not to slip and fall in the floor before, probably, millions of Italians. And a bunch of people from other countries, too. She wondered if someone from Emmanuel's team was watching the interview. She wondered if Emmanuel himself was there, in some corner of his palace, also before the screen “Mercadante, Pacini, Persiani, Mayr... (2)”. She was holding a copy of her last cd, the one she had recorded in London; the one with the horrible cover. The host had a pile of these just at her side, on a sort of mock coffee table. “All hidden gems of belcanto...  _ Inès de Castro  _ (3) , example given...”

“A sad story, in case our audience don't remember, or doesn't know about it...” It was more probably, Elena thought, that they didn't knew, and she doubted they even cared about Mercadante or Mayr, but she limited herself to a soft smile before her reply.

“Yes. The favorite of prince, and would-be King Pedro, often nicknamed the Just, or the Cruel, a woman later murdered and who became Queen after her death... The poor woman was the victim of intrigues and... ”. She stopped short at the middle of the sentence; it was, maybe, not a very smart decision to introduce in their conversation the question of favorites, even long time dead ones. The host had been until that moment very professional sticking to which the interview was supposed to be before the photos stormed the Internet, and took her allusion as an opportunity to address to the problem. Elena took a deep breath.

“Women during all eras have been often attacked not only by intrigues, as you put it, but also gossip, and unfairly treated because of it, even if we are not in the Spanish Middle Ages...”

“Portuguese”, Elena corrected. Chus would be proud (4).

“... and there have been changes in all these centuries, of course”, the host said, ignoring the soprano's correction “But you have been during the last hours the victim of gossip, Signora Mendieta, because of these photos with the French President which appeared last night. We have tried to reach them but for the moment the Presidency has not made any comment about them. However, we have known by a source from the Opéra de Paris orchestra that you have been asked to withdraw from a new production of Donizetti's  _ Maria Stuarda _ . Is that true?”.

Taken aback, the singer's hesitation lasted more than it should; she had been prepared to be answered about even more intimate things, but this question, which hit her in her professional life and which she thought was a secret between three, or rather four individuals – the artistic director of the Opéra, Carmen, Chus and herself – took her off guard. A sudden panic invaded her, a panic that was evident for an instant, and visible even through the screen. She lowered her eyes, looked at the skirt of the absurd pink dress, cleared her throath, and answered at last.

“I can't say anything about the Stuarda yet, since we are in talks with the board”; the source was either the artistic director's office itself, to put a bit of pressure in her and make Elena to step down or someone from the orchestra or the chorus. Who knew. Whoever was, the soprano would have liked to snap them.

“But you consider unfair to be asked to step down, isn't that, Signora Mendieta?”

“Of course I consider it unfair. I have my own merits. My... friendship with the President has nothing to do with my talents as an opera singer, which, at the risk of being immodest, I think are evident enough, and anyway this production had been planned two years and a half ago”

“You talked about friendship”

“Ah, yes. That's what it is”, Elena said, boldly lying, looking at the host's eyes, right into the camera; the best way of lying “I am not the lover of Monsieur Macron, look at our agendas. We met several years ago, in Strasbourg, the story is well known. We've keep contact since then. Personally I find extremely misogynist and insulting to deduce from these photos that there is something more. Even if it's understandable considering who is behind the outlet which put them online”

“Are you suggesting that this is political maneuvering?”

“Of course”, she replied, “from the far right”

_ Don't talk about politics _ , Carmen had said. Well, too late to follow her advice.

  
  
  


***

Over her husband's shoulder, Brigitte looked at the cartoon, not entirely surprised. Emmanuel had probably taken it from the little pile formed by French and foreign printed press that used to be available in the palace. The president, which in the tabloid's caricature appeared diminutive, but with a giant, curved nose, was clinging to an enormous pair of breasts; the woman in the cartoon was defined mainly by them. Her body was barely clad in what resembled a red dress, actually a piece of cloth clinging to her skin to the point you could see her navel, her hair was a cascade of curly black hair and her eyes and lips were as enormous as her bosom. She didn't resemble the individual purported to be caricatured there, neither in her traits, her body type or her height, but that seemed of little importance for the tabloid. The man's nose sunk between her breasts and one of his hands was hidden under the cloth, apparently covering the woman nipples. Herself, or rather a distorted, monkey-faced, pale, wrinkled, squalid creature with a blond hair bob and dressed with a blue suit while holding a Louis Vuitton handbag appeared at a certain distance, like she wanted to hit the man and screaming:  _ “When I talked you about chest voice I didn't mean that!” _ .

She had seen herself caricatured in a similar way too many times to be really bothered; she wondered how the other woman could feel, judging by her own experience in past times, when derision made her really suffer. One thing was satyre, which often was in bad taste; other were cartoons like this one. A part of her almost sympathized with the soprano; being utilized in that way, as a mean to hit a political rival, in this case her husband. Or, putting it more simple, to practice the ancient sport of French bashing, like that, and other British tabloids, had made from the times of Gillray and Cruikshank (5). On the other hand, from all the content that had been emerging in the last days and that was targeting the three of them, this was far from being the worst. Ignoring Emmanuel's suggestion to stay afar from social networks and the Internet in general, she had read some of the messages addressed to her husband, to the soprano, and indirectly, since she had no accounts, to herself. To say she was weary of all this, was an understatement. As for the president, he had pushed the thing away from him, and now his fingers tapped the table as if in search of an imaginary piano where he could release his nerves. But he didn't made a scene. His anger, as usual in him, had the coldness of the Antarctic. But there were heat and fury underneath, she knew, as she put her hand on his shoulder and felt the tension of his body under her fingers; all was there, his reluctance to dance at the media, or the opposition's, tune, his aversion to gave way if he didn't want to. He would respond, Brigitte knew, when he would think it adequate; the problem was that the snowball was getting bigger and bigger, like the one from last Summer. Only that there were more unsettling elements in the picture. She pressed his shoulder, as in a reminder she was there, that she would be always there.

The muffled sound of nails on the carpet announced the presence of  _ Nemo _ , who came – licking his muzzle - to the warm smell of the dinner served by the majordomo. It was possible that the fruit she always insisted on have at her table – and his, she was always attentive to not to leave Emmanuel on his own as far as eating properly was concerned - was less attractive for him.  _ Nemo _ was a welcome distraction, she noticed how part of her husband's tension disappeared after the dog arrived from the room nearby. Sighing, she sat on the chair in front of her husband, in order to share the ritual of their dinner together. The dog yawned, wagging his tail, and came to greet his masters with a mix of groans and sniffling. Then sat near Emmanuel, since  _ Nemo _ knew perfectly well who of them could be indulgent enough to share a crumble or two. Which instantly happened. After having devoured his share of a piece of bread, the dog put his head on Emmanuel's knee. Now he wouldn't move from there during the rest of the dinner. Just in case.

“You spoil him too much”, Brigitte said “He doesn't obey anyone”.

Her husband's hand was resting on the dog's head.

“It's logical. He spent two years without anyone wanting to adopt him, now he deserves some privileges”. They had had this conversation often. Brigitte picked distractedly a piece of fruit. Her fingers brushed the newspaper, now closed. Maybe she should address to the elephant in the room. Or, at least, to one of them. But it was him who spoke before.

“I am sorry about that”.

The cartoon? Not his fault anyway. The affair with the opera singer? No, he probably wasn't sorry, if anything, she knew him well. The truth being revealed, ricocheting and hitting her in the process? Without a doubt. It was not that she wanted him to go in public and proclaim _ I am not Madame Mendieta's lover!  _ Just like in previous occasions. It was useless anyway, Madame Mendieta herself had denied all kind of romantic involvement with her husband, but everyone seemed to be sceptical. And then, in that interview, she had asked a last political question, this time about the Yellow Vests. The opera singer had addressed to the movement a series of varied words going from  _ antidemocratic _ to  _ ridiculous  _ and _ vandals _ , which was the reason, probably, why in some roundabouts a bunch of them had brought several copies of her last cd and throw them into an improvised bonfire. One of them had brought a pair of DVDs, and her prior recordings. Even a signed autograph. “I've seen her a pair of times and I enjoyed her singing”, he had said before the camera “ But now I couldn't listen to her without remembering what he said about us”. He had sounded hurt and relatively reasonable, if one ignored the banner behind him. Which he wasn't holding anyway.  


“You don't need to be sorry. You knew this would happen sooner or later. Now, we all should resolve what to do, because we have, I am afraid, another pressing matters”

  
He looked into the void, his hand still petting  _ Nemo _ . Elena's interview had been, probably, not a good example of damage control. Something in which his team – and well, in certain way he, even if he felt that nothing would control the damage already done, and that it was useless to talk; no one would listen to him – were becoming reluctant experts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aand here are the notes:
> 
> (1) Jacques de Molay was the last Grand Master of the Templars, who ended burned up just in front of Notre Dame de Paris in 1314. The legend does exist, but allow yours truly to be sceptical about it. Just throwing a Dan Brown-wannabe in the talk show while our heroine is waiting there.  
> (2) Saverio Mercadante (1795-1870), Giovanni Pacini (1796-1867), Giuseppe Persiani (1799-1869) and Simon, or Simone Mayr (1763-1845) are relatively obscure composers of the Romantic era.  
> (3) Persiani's most famous opera.  
> (4) Is not that strange that someone could mix Pedro I of Portugal (1320-1367), nicknamed the Just or the Cruel, depending if who was talking was a friend or his enemy, can be confused with Pedro I of Castile (1334-1369), nicknamed the Just or the Cruel, depending of who was talking.  
> (5) James Gillray and Isaac Cruishank, the two great British caricaturist of the second half of the 18th Century and the first decade of the 19th.
> 
> I think that was all... Well, I am trying to overcome my technical difficulties and to really update the next chapter soon.


	25. Trennung war mein banges Los

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discuss about literature and sculpture. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical difficulties seem over for me, so here's the new chapter. As usual, you must forgive me for my mispellings, which I know exist. As usual remember this is a fictional story... only that I am using a bunch of real world leaders in the process. If you are lost with opera (& other) references, then you have the final notes.  
> Without further ado, enjoy.

**XXV**

**_Trennung war mein banges Los_ **

  
  


_Doch wie schnell schwand meine Freude,_

_Trennung war mein banges Los;_

_Und nun schwimmt mein Aug' in Tränen,_

_Kummer ruht in meinem Schoss._

(But how quickly my joy deserted me,

separation was my unhappy lot;

and now my eyes are overflow with tears,

sorrow dwells in my breast).

_Ach, ich liebte_ . MOZART. _Die Entführung aus dem Serail_.

Paradise may not exist, and, even if that was a real thing, there would be, probably, millions of different versions about how it should look. Maybe the home of your childhood, or a green prairie for some, a gilded palace, perhaps. Maybe it changed, depending on your mood, who knew, after all. If someone had asked him the moment he left El Ateneo, the President of the French Republic would have answered that his idea of the Paradise, probably, was that book store, probably the most famous in Buenos Aires, and arguably the most beautiful in the World. There, under the ceiling painted in 1919 just after the Great War – a woman in white who personified Peace offering an olive branch to the peoples of the Earth -, in the same which had been the stage, he had been drinking coffee and talking to local, francophone writers (1). He had talked about Neruda and García Márquez, who he had read as a teeneger, about Borges and Cortázar, about his past attempts to be a writer himself, about the possibility of becoming one, since his life wasn't over, and wouldn't be over after l'Élysée, no matter if he was reelected or not. Emmanuel had looked at the thousands of books in what had been the parterre and the boxes of the Grand Splendid – the theatre's name when it was inaugurated – and thought that, after all, and unlike Elena had said, there were, maybe, opera houses in Paradise. Something that the Grand Splendid had never been, but this was a matter of little importance. Besides the vision of that temple of performing arts where once Gardel made his first records, now turned the temple of books, and several volumes he had purchased, when he emerged from the store he carried with him the memories of the warm welcome of the people who, at the street, had cheered him and had wanted to hold his hand, or that old lady that had screamed “¡Acá, Macron!” and had asked him permission to kiss his cheeks. Which he, naturally, gave. How different was, this moment, from the last weekend of protests in France, or, for that matter, from the protocol breaks of the Argentinian government, which almost caused him leaving the airport without no one of Macri's ministers coming to welcome him; he had spent his time shaking hands of airport workers – ironically enough, with their yellow safety vests on – until vice president Gabrielli arrived, mumbling apologies in a very questionable French (2). Maybe because of her nervousness, maybe because it was already questionable before. In any case, it's not like he's taking revenge on the summit's organization by making their job difficult by planning visits like this one or last night dinner's in one of the city's restaurants, or his planned interview with Borges' widow and the homage to the victims of Videla's dictatorship. In any case, this short respite of beauty and literature mixed together is like a balm, in contrast with the cacophony that dominated France these days, and which will engulf him again in two days.

Édouard had told him; the yellow vests were no ordinary protesters, and the government's – regardless of their sincerity- attempts to negotiate had failed, since they never showed up at Matignon. Or showed and left minutes after, because they had received death threats from other members of the movement. They had a few “figureheads” who constantly refused to be considered as leaders, since, in the Yellow Vest, everyone could be considered as their very own spokesperson, and no one talked for the movement itself, which contains people from far right, far left and people who is disillusioned and never has voted at all. In this moment their petitions were beyond the annulation of a fuel tax. They were after the Government, or rather they were after him; at least it was the case with the very violent fringe that had taken over them, and of that violent fringe that had overshadowed all the rest, a handful wanted him not only out of office, but would probably only approve of him in case he took his own life live on TV, after feeding his ministers to his dog. Well, maybe that last bit was exaggerated. In any case, there was any hope to stop the wave, for the moment. The media behaved as usually did with protests, focusing on it constantly and covering them in a way that had angered everyone – his own base thought they were given too much screen time and the Yellow Vests that they were unfairly portrayed as a bunch of savages and that the cases of police using excessive force weren't taken seriously enough - , and most of the opposition was very vocal and still convinced that they could take profit of them. When, actually, the one who kept silent was Le Pen, who just waited to recover the fruits from the tree that was being violently shaken. What was clear is that last Saturday's protest in Paris wasn't the end, quite the contrary. The scenario was starting to be clear; apparently there were little options but to resist and leave the movement to root by itself – what was their strength, that is, the lack of a real leadership of their refusal to be linked to labor unions or play by the rules -, would be, sooner or later, their weakness; but meanwhile it wouldn't look pretty, to put it mildly.

In the middle of all that turmoil, the photos with Elena and him walking next to the Grand Palais had been called a smoke curtain to cover the Yellow Vests, which once were called a smoke curtain to mute the affair Benalla – it was curious how Elena avoided to call the guy by his name, is not that he was going to materialize in the middle of her bedroom -, which, months ago, had been considered to be a smoke curtain to cover up... what exactly? It was curious, all this infinite string of overblown scandals, and this mania of considering that they were supposed to be part of a machiavellian plan to overshadow each other. Elena... on the second performance of Verdi's _Requiem_ in Rome, she had been booed by a certain group of individuals in the audience, just in the day the radio broadcast had been scheduled; so fortunate that the cameras had filmed the premiere, before everything exploded. _Andate a Parigi!_ (3) was the softest thing the aforementioned group yelled at her, who cared if there was no Paris to go back to for her, not for a while, not for singing, anyway. The harshest was related to some of her hidden skills and to a certain part of his body. Not a thing to yell in public, much less to a lady, and especially with Radio Tre recording it for the posterity. As for that Paris where she wouldn't go back to sing, at least at its main opera house, _I'm suing the Opéra, if they dare to break our agreement_ , she had written.

When Hollande had been caught visiting Julie Gayet years ago, a heated debate over the President's safety had started, apparently worrying about the Head of State going incognito to meet his lover, actually wanting to ridiculize him. Emmanuel had been the witness of all the storm, from inside the palace, when he was still the deputy chief of staff of the President, in that office under a corner of the roof at the Elysée. It was the second time, in a very short while, that there was a separation for a sitting president, even if Valérie Trierweiler had been the president's partner and not his wife. Nothing really similar to Sarkozy and his wife Cecilia divorcing and then him marrying Carla Bruni. He wondered what Hollande was thinking now; somewhat, Emmanuel suspected that his greatest fantasy was to run again for president in 2022 and recover the mantle from the young man who had snatched it just under his nose. Whether this impression was true or not, the man had been seen encouraging a group of Yellow Vests that same week. Anyway, how the media had treated the president's romance with Madame Gayet had been one of the many shocks that he had experienced when he was secretary, in the depths of that office he had back then, with these creaking stairs covered with a blue carpet that looked faded and dusty.

He had lost account of how many times, watching how Hollande was harassed, pursued, ridiculized, he had said to himself: _I'd do the opposite when I'll be in his place_. There was the possibility of his predecessor's animosity once he decided to run for president was coming from the fact that he had been fond of him, or acted like he was. For Emmanuel the journey to total distrust and disenchantment had started a way back. But no matter the fact that he had tried to do the opposite to Hollande. He was, like him, harashed, pursued and ridiculized.

In his case, hypocrite debates over safety had started back in July. They had resurrected now. He wondered if the Senate, in the hands of the right-wing opposition -too happy again to find something that would show them as being a counter-power- , would try to mount another commision to investigate the affair. That he could have a lover, wouldn't be considered an anomaly; that his tax-funded safety would be used to arrange trysts, was another thing. Decades ago, nothing of this would have been known. He wondered once more how a Mitterrand or a Chirac would manage, had social networks existed during their time in office. Badly, maybe. Maybe not. They were hardened politicians before; whereas him... well, he learnt quickly.

_Shall we limit ourselves to mails at the moment?_ she had written. As in begging the opposite. But what other options they had at the moment.

He knew it was the logical conclusion, to remain discreet, for now. He even doubted it was a wise thing to keep writing each other.

***

“I enjoyed the show, even if I must say the inclusion of the rappers was a little weird, in my opinion anyway”

In the gallery dominating the foyer of the legendary Teatro Colón, Buenos Aires opera house (4), Justin had grabbed a glass of wine and looked around him, then up to the stained-glass dome with the Muses, a work by the Parisian brand Gaudin. They were standing next to a column, Emmanuel leaning against it, just next to the stairs in which the family photo had been taken. The leaders of the G20 had just enjoyed one of these shows hosting countries pulled off; this one, called _Argentum_ (5), had mixed dancers, a live orchestra and singers with modern images of the beauty and diversity of Argentina, and had ended with Mauricio Macri shedding some tears while his wife and Angela Merkel patted his back softly. The leaders had sit in the first row of boxes, with the Macris, Merkel and Modi in the center. Emmanuel and Brigitte had been, again, just next to the Trumps, like the last time in Hamburg.

Ivanka Trump and her father passed by, he apparently sulking, she stopping to briefly nod at them and look at the two men – her blond head slightly tilted - , from the top of their heads to the tip of their toes. For a moment it seemed she was going to join them, with that expression she used to made when she was next to him, an expression that he found uncomfortable, but finally decided otherwise. The president and Ivanka descended the stairs and went to another group, with Queen Maxima and Jean-Claude Juncker. Ivanka jumped on the conversation, apparently startling Maxima.

“He's still rubbing his hand”, Justin said, looking at the President of the United States, whose back was visible from their position. “You left a mark apparently. Again.”

The French president didn't answer. He seemed interested in looking at the stairs next to them, his mind far away, distracted. For someone who usually focused in his conversation partners as if they were the only individual on Earth it was quite unlikely.

“Emmanuel?”

“Of course I did”, he said, finally, raising his head; but his eyes were still veiled. “And yes, the inclusion of rap was unexpected; at least this time Donald wasn't clapping between movements of a symphony. Even, if actually, and while Donald doesn't know it, last year in Hamburg he was reacting as audience in Beethoven's era would have done; they weren't so solemn about listening to music. They applauded between movements, they reacted, they cried, or shouted. Certain composers had to write on the score that they _didn't_ want people clapping”.

“Yes, it only started to be standard etiquette during the 20th Century”. Emmanuel looked at him. “You know, I'm not an uncouth maple syrup eater, I know a thing or two too”, he added, smiling fondly. _Better forget you have a heart_. But he had one, and legitimately worried for the guy, among other things. What could he do about it.

“I didn't say you were...”

“Of course you didn't”.

It was now the turn of Vladimir Putin to pass by, in his way, it seemed, to the bathroom. He was followed by fifteen members of his staff and limped a bit. Rumor was that he used shoes with extensions to look slightly taller. No one, of course, was foolish enough to ask him to his face. Emmanuel followed the Russian president with his eyes, now bright again.

“He made a _very personal_ comment I disliked, that's why, I did, again, bruise his hand. This time I can't say it was some kind of power play. He just got into my nerves this time”, the president abruptly said “Regrettable”.

“About your...” Justin hesitated for a moment. “personal life?”, he finally dared. Emmanuel stopped leaning against the column and gave some steps in direction of one of the galleries. The Canadian looked around him, saw their respective security details exchanging disapproving glances, but followed Emmanuel anyway. After all the so-called Gallery of the Busts was just next to them. The hall received its name from the busts of composers placed over the glass paneled doors that gave to the foyer. Emmanuel stopped just next to the sculpture under Gounod's bust. It was called _El Secreto_ (6) and depicted Cupid whispering to his mother's Venus ear. The goddess seemed amused, her lips curved and her hand reaching for an arrow from her son's quiver.

“I'll never cease to be impressed at this”, Emmanuel said, still not answering Justin's question. “Look at how that marble looks like flesh, how his fingers seem to press into her skin”. And, indeed, Venus's skin seemed to respond to Cupid's fingers. “Even if he's no Canova, or Bernini, or Michelangelo, yet look what Eberlin did there and how...”

“You aren't going to give me a crash course in sculpture, are you?”, Justin interrupted him.

“No”, Emmanuel admitted, a bit sheepish. Then, without taking his eyes out of the statue, added. “About _my_ personal life, you are right, he made a extremely distasteful comment which I won't repeat about my personal life and that's why I couldn't help to bruise his hand. It was a mistake, I should have controlled myself ”.

Considering how extremely distasteful Donald's comments could be in public, and how his “locker room talk” was, Justin could imagine it had something to do with the opera singer, with Brigitte or with the two of them; asking more would be indelicate. He examined the President's profile; there were new wrinkles there, around his eyes.

“How are things going?” Justin asked “If it's not indelicate”.

“It's... complicated”, the other man answered. He kept his eyes stubbornly fixated on Venus. Then looked at Justin “Have you ever heard about that photo of Chirac at Brégançon?”, he asked with unexpected levity, given his mood.

“Yes”, Justin lied. Or maybe he had heard, but didn't remember the story, and, above all, didn't understand what it had to do with Emmanuel's present situation. The Frenchman chuckled. “What's so fun about it?”

“The story? Quite fun, indeed. It happened one Summer, at the Fort of Bregançon. By the way, remind me to invite you there, someday. It's quite the enjoyable place, once you are conveniently protected against mosquitoes” he made a brief pause “Your evident inability to lie about knowing it is funny, too”.

“Very well then. Enlighten me about Chirac, your holiday residence and that funny story”, Justin gave up, with a hint of exasperation.

“One day”, Emmanuel went on, without apparently acknowledging the Canadian's impatience “the president, who was spending his holidays there, went to the balcony of his bedroom, to look at the yachts in the bay. Or rather, he was looking at the girls sunbathing on the yachts. Paparazzi were there, waiting for him outside the fort” and in a lower tone he added “Something they still do, by the way”.

“And...”

“And he was naked” Justin's eyebrows raised; not that he was scandalized, but he still didn't get the point of this story being told. “Ah,Theresa May had the same expression last Summer when I told her the story. In the very same balcony where the president had stayed, by the way”, Emmanuel joked. “So, naturally, the photographers did what was expected from them in such a situation. Immortalize the moment. However, the president had barely returned to his room when they decided not to make use of the images. People found later, thanks to _Le Canard_ ”(7).

“Ah”, Justin commented, still not getting the point.

“Tell me, Justin, if that happened to me now, what do you think they would do?”

The Prime Minister's throat went dry all of a sudden. Emmanuel's words awake in his mind a very graphic image. Not unpleasant but embarrassing. _Complicated_. He expected he wasn't blushing. But Emmanuel was looking again at the sculpture and didn't seem to notice it.

“A lot of retweets probably”, he finally replied. He took a sip of his drink.

“Exactly. Times have changed. Never go naked in an open space. Especially, Justin, never bare your soul” he looked at the foyer, at the other side of the glass paneled door. “I think we should go back down there”.

He followed the President to the foyer, where they joined the group with Merkel and Sánchez, his eyes still fixated on his phone screen. Tomorrow, the summit would really began. _Forget you have a heart, never bare your soul_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) And you can see him reading a translated fragment of Borges biography by Bioy Casares here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbJEzaJiWP8  
> (2) Seriously... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNF454GrCHE  
> (3) Go (back) to Paris  
> (4) Not only legendary because of its architecture, but also because of its acoustics.  
> (5) You can see the entire thing on Youtube, in case you are interested: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WGysFniV5HY  
> (6) Literally The Secret (not difficult to translate!), a work by Gustav Eberlein (1847-1926)  
> (7) Le Canard Enchainé is a satyric French newspaper, well known not only for its jokes and humorous cartoons; there's a real investigation work behind that had unveiled a great number of scandals from French political class, from Bokassa's diamonds to the so-called Penelopegate during the last Presidential elections.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment, make your suggestions, etc, etc. Until the next one! :)


	26. Vsyo tot zhe son!...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of bad dreams and ball gowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a little customary reminder about English not being my first language and to remind you all to have patience with me. And that if you are lost with opera & other references you can read the final notes. With that, enjoy :).

**XXVI**

**_Vsyo tot zhe son!..._ **

Vsyo tot zhe son!... 

Vtretiy raz vsyo tot zhe son!

Ne-otvyazni, proklyati son!...

_(Always the same dream!.._

_For the third time, the same dream!.._

_A fatal dream that pursues me)_

_MUSSORGSKY, Boris Godunov, Act I._

**December**

> **PALCOSCENICO'S RIDDLES. THE LADY STRIKES BACK.-** _From the city with the forest of dried pigeons we are told that certain Queen of Scotland doesn't resign herself to have her head severed and it's plotting revenge against the opera house who decided to deliver the fatal blow over her neck. This lady now has seek for advice in a prestigious law firm and she's ready to strike back her enemies in their very same terrain. Could help come for her from Heaven? Seems unlikely, even if she has friends there._

“What is that supposed to mean?” Elena was walking back to their hotel – convenient next to the opera house, she could see the façade from her room's balcony; in three minutes, one was there – and reading on the screen of her phone at the same time; she felt a little dizzy, so she handed the device to her manager, closing her eyes; her headache was still there, it was like it had been there for weeks” _The city with the forest of dried pigeons_?” She adjusted her scarf; her throat felt a little itchy.

“Vienna”, Carmen replied, brushing the screen with her fingers and stopping short next to the door of a café, after an evening rehearsing at the Staatsoper. Elena looked at her, puzzled. “Lorca. Did you ever read _A poet in New York_ ? The _Little viennese waltz_? (1)”

Carmen – dressed in grey, with a pendant resembling a knot and assorted earrings- seemed disappointed once again. The soprano blushed, as if she was ashamed to acknowledge she had never, indeed, read that work. She wasn't that familiar with Lorca, and felt certainly reluctant to confess her carences in that aspect. Moreover, now that Carmen had mentioned the poem in question, she mostly remembered some song by Leonard Cohen, one of her mother's favorites. Lorca awoke in her memories of her Literature class back in the school, with that eccentric guy who declaimed the _Somnambule Ballad_ in a way that got on everyone's nerves. It wasn't poor Federico's fault if every time he read that part about the drowned girl ( _green flesh, her hair green, with eyes of cold silver_ ) the man stuttered and cried like he was just at the border of the cistern mentioned in the poem. He had seemed mainly interested in other Lorca's works than in _A poet in New York_.

“In that website people have fun with these riddles, but it's pretty evident they are talking about you”, Carmen went on, no longer interested in Elena's expertise, or lack of, in the works of Lorca. “The _Lady_ is, of course, Lady Macbeth, and the Queen of Scotland can be used for her or for Mary...” she gave back the phone to its owner “And of course Heaven means...” Carmen's voice was now a whisper at the soprano's ear “l'Élysée” Elena raised her eyebrows, definitely solving riddles was not her thing, at least not at the moment “Elysium”.

Ah of course. Elysium. Like _Élysée_ . Like Champs Élysées. The Elysian Fields of the Greek Mythology, where the righteous chosen by the gods came to spend Eternity. So close to the rest of the Hades, though. She said nothing; evidently the lawsuit was not a secret; she had announced live on that Italian talk show she was going to sue the Opéra, and of course she had picked a Parisian law firm, because, in spite of her frequent visits to the French capital, she needed someone who really knew French labour laws. Her lawyer, a woman who looked like a mix of a young Margaret Thatcher and the Duracell bunny – she never kept still - had an spectacular bureau with a splendid view of the Île-de-la-Cité. Her clients gave their backs to the wide panoramic window while she could see the Seine and Notre-Dame while sitting at her desk. No help from _Heaven_ , naturally, was expected.

“I think I need a warm shower”, Elena announced when they stepped into the hotel's hall. It was a polite way to dismiss Carmen and, for the moment, stay alone in her room. Until the dinner, anyway.

Her manager looked at her with an expression that had became more and more frequent since last month, said nothing and limited herself to tap her shoulder and disappear in her own bedroom. The soprano read her glance as defeat; Carmen still didn't understand why she had never confided in her, why she had never told all the truth about Emmanuel. Maybe something was broken there; a mix of confidence lost and worry, and more disappointment at Elena's failure to follow her advice when she had appeared on TV. But the soprano believed she would be ultimately loyal to her and that confidence would be mended, somehow. If anything, she wasn't inclined to think about these things right now.

She had barely closed the door when she had already kicked her shoes out, pulled at her scarf, left her handbag fall in the carpet, thrown her coat on the bed. The briefcase, she left it in a more delicate way, on the table next to the balcony door. She loosed her hair. For a moment she was divided between the hot shower she really needed or whatever the furniture that could give her some comfort; the white armchair or the bed, with its multiple pillows and cushions. The room was comfortable and warm, and she felt a sweet somnolence; she finally settled for the armchair. Five minutes there, and then the shower. And maybe, a short nap after that.

Lady Macbeth... her first one. It was a demanding role, like climbing a mountain; she welcomed the challenge, embraced it. Critics were a little sceptical about her aptness to tackle the role which demanded such unconventional things as having a voice suffocated, darkened, definitely not beautiful. But she would show them, she would show, she would prove them wrong... And what of the baritone, how many times was indicated _Voce muta_ in his score? A muted voice... Verdi didn't want angelic voices singing this murderous pair, quite the contrary. He had gone against his era's conventions, like in other occasions during his lifetime when he had confronted censorship, not always being the victor. And that didn't meant that, in her case, he wanted a soprano hurling or screaming just for dramatic purposes. Quite the contrary; she was required to be introspective, subtle, nuanced. With that unnatural _pianissimo_ at the end of her sleepwalking scene.

Verdi had been so particular indeed, that legend said he had made the soprano and the baritone to rehearse their duet from Act I one hundred and fifty times. The last one, while the public had started to sit down in their places. She had rehearsed that same duet today a few times, with a French baritone who hated her by proxy – she didn't know if he was a lepenist or if he just hated Emmanuel -, but they had worked through that. _Marking_ (2) through the rehearsal in order to preserve their voices, they finally worked out what they could do together with a fascinating opera which, however, had an uninteresting envelope this time. The production wasn't new; instead, it had been around for decades. Unchallenging and dusty, it still had its place there by reasons no one could properly explain. The premiere was in two days. The other thing that she would sing these days in Vienna was her brief intervention in the _Fledermaus_ gala in which, as tradition demanded, singers were invited to make an appearance as guests during Act II. She had picked a _romanza_ from the zarzuela _La Marchenera_ , not out of patriotism but because she liked it, and if someone saw a hidden message in the verses _Tengo un amor forastero/ que por los ojos me entró_ (3), they were kind of right. There was a counterpart to sing in that performance and wear the fabulous fin-de-siécle outfit that came with. It was supposed to be in the last night of the year. She wouldn't be with her family the first day of 2019. She felt sad, and relieved, given the last events. The former more than the latter.

Five minutes more, she thought. Five minutes and she'll take that shower. She closed her eyes, and fell asleep.

  
  


***

“I don't like how you look tonight”; exactly two hours later, over their dinner, Carmen glanced at her with what could be described as a mix of worry and disapproval. More the former than the latter. They were alone, the two of them, with an empty place left for Chus. The community manager was sick with a sudden flu. Everyone had the flu in Vienna, it seemed. Carmen's words came after the reading of the soprano's interview for an Austrian opera magazine. Thanks heaven it was about her professional life and nothing else. And Lady Macbeth, and all the sopranos that had preceded her tackling that devilish – both vocally and dramatically – role.

“ _Grazie, non tanti elogi_ ” (4), was Elena's curt reply.

Carmen sighed patiently. When she used Lorenzo fucking Da Ponte (5) in a conversation it was never a good sign.

“Are you having nightmares again?” worry was now prevalent in her eyes and her voice.

“I fell asleep on the armchair” the soprano said, looking away.

“Nightmares about _him_ , of course” the word _him_ came as a whisper. About something happening to him, probably.

“I don't want to talk about it”, Elena said.

_She had seen him walking alone, at dawn, at the Champs-Elysées. There were no cars, no human being in view. And he walked, walked until he reached the Arc de Triomphe, which appeared shrouded in smoke and covered with graffiti, more than ever was in December the 1_ _st_ _. There were no sounds, not even the noise of his steps on the wet pavement. She saw him slightly from above, like she was a bird, maybe a dove or a sparrow. Only then she realized that, indeed, there were more human beings there; a group of men, under the arc, quiet and immobile, apparently talking between them, not paying, at first, attention to the man who approached them, wearing his dark coat, his lean figure cut against the rising sun. Then he stopped n and addressed to them; or at least she believed he was doing it, since there was still no sound; she only saw his lips moving. Little by little she saw faces turning from the men under the monument, listening; some of them were sad, some of them indifferent, some of them disperate. Some of them were angered. Suddenly there was a movement from them, Elena didn't see from which of the aforementioned groups – the sad, the disperate, the angered? -, and a brick was thrown, by an unknown hand, and hit him directly. The noise of his body hitting the wet pavement was the first one she heard, and a huge cacophony of a thousand voices ensued, it was like she was listening dozens of radio stations at the same time, all of them saying variations of_ maimed, wounded, dead _._

The soprano had woken up with her blood racing in her ears and her mouth dry. Absurd as later she would find it while sitting at the restaurant, she had actually reached for her phone and searched for the latest news – still inside her handbag neglectfully left on the floor, so she left herself fall from the armchair and crawled until she had her hands on it -; of course the French President had not been attacked with a brick, at the Champs-Elysées or anywhere else. She still spent the next five minutes trying to chase the image of his dead body away, before noticing she now felt cold and that she had been asleep during half an hour. Rubbing her eyes, the singer had left the phone fall on the bed. Sighing, she had headed to the bathroom. How different the nature of her dreams about him was now. Nightmares had appeared a pair of weeks ago. Is not that they appeared every single night but they were recurrent.

So definitely she prefered not to talk about herself pathetically crawling for her phone only because her bad dreams.

“Why did the Maestro want you to give a little laugh during the duet with the baritone?”; the changement in the conversation was very welcome and Elena profited of the opportunity.

“Callas”, the soprano rolled her eyes. “He heard that detail in the recording from 1952 and...”

“Which release? The official one with patches of other performances and a terrible sound quality, or...” Carmen's hand described a circle, as if saying _you know how it is..._

“Another remaster, from a better source” the industry of classical music had these things now and then. Live recordings with patches because the original fragments were in poor quality or damages, Domingo lending his high notes to Jon Vickers, or the incredible story of Alberto Lizzio, the phantom conductor created by a music producer only to sell low-budget Cds at malls. Even in recent times France Musique had faced a shitstorm after they decided to edit a live recording of Bizet's Pearl Fishers, erasing the tenor's cracks (6). “She does that little, low, almost inaudible laugh after _Ma dimmi, altra voce non parti d'udire?_ To great effect, of course”.

“Of course” Carmen echoed, without the least trace of irony. La Divina's not always benevolent shadow was always there; Lady Macbeth had her imprint like every single role she sang, even if the number of performances in which she had incarnated the shakespearean villainess had been very limited. It didn't matter, her trace was, as usual, there, and most singers did, at least, a painstaking analysis of her recording. “And you told him...”

“That, like in poetry, the first one that comes with the idea is a genius and the second one an idiot” who was the idiot, if the conductor or herself, she didn't clarify. There had been a lot of idiots in between anyway. “So I refused his suggestion”.

Carmen nodded, as if she had expected that reaction the whole time.

“He's not _that_ difficult, just a _routinier_. He follows the singers, and that's all. Not very estimulating. Competent but uninspiring. That was his only idea apparently, as with the production, it's old fashioned, comfortable and not very exciting. Fortunately Verdi brings excitation enough”

“You don't have a problem with Die Fledermaus, though. And the production is more than thirty years old. By the way, you'll have to go tomorrow in the morning for costume fitting. Minor retouches, they say. Try to sleep well”.

As if that depended on her.

***

“Please, Madame, be still. It will be a moment. Just a moment more.”

Like every opera house of a certain relevance – and with more reason being one of Europe's greatest -, the Staatsoper had its own costume department; everything singers had to wear on stage was made there, just like happened with the rest of the atrezzo. Only modest ones rented costumes. And besides, they had a huge depot of clothes and shoes of different sizes. Like, for example, that gown now being fitted on her, originally a creation by an Oscar winner costume designer who also worked for opera houses. It was a white ball gown in the style of 1880, with touches of lace in the skirt and cleavage, and with pale pink ribbons adorning the shoulders; a feather in her hair and gloves would complete the outfit. The gown had been worn by another pint-sized – but thinner and with higher notes - soprano in a performance from several years ago. The seamstress had been extremely efficient with the fitting, and it was almost complete after only two sessions, that had been spent in making the necessary changes to this and the costume for _Macbeth_. Being still, however, equaled torture for her, at least that morning. She had still a long day before her and she felt alone; with Carmen having joined the fallen to the flu,, the manager had decided to stay at the hotel.

“Perfect, Madame.”, she said, looking at her from different angles with the help of a set of mirrors. “We're almost done”.

There was a slight commotion coming from the atelier door. A voice coming from there yelled:

“Madame Ardeleanu is here for her costume fitting!”

“Oh, it was about time, I wondered if she would show up”, the seamstress said. Elena didn't answer; she wasn't sure if the comment was meant for her or if the woman was just talking to herself. In certain cases, it was better to be neutral, so she said nothing and tried to stay even more still “We'll help you out of that, Madame Mendieta. Renata!” she yelled back to the voice “Bring the blue ball gown here!” then she made another comment “Everyone is dressed in light tones but she had to pick the electric blue. Of course she wants to be the center of attention”.

Irina Ardeleanu, her trademark dark hair down and wearing a red leather jacket, white pants and a black turtleneck, entered the room sure of herself, as she ever was. The greatest Violetta of her era, as some critic had dubbed her, not entirely as praise but as a description of how in her opinion the vocal level of modern singers was, in general, low, she was older than she looked – she had Carmen's age, but no one dared to make comments about it -, a glamourous, striking woman extremely attractive. Tall and elegant, she behaved in all the aspects of her life like she was on stage and being filmed on HD.

“Ah, good morning, Elena”, she said with her velvety voice, looking at her with a radiant smile that showed her perfect teeth but not a trace of warmth.

“How are you doing, Irina?”

Their relationship was cold, or maybe inexistent, yet their careers were linked since that time Elena had stepped for Madame Ardeleanu that time at La Scala. She owed a great deal to that time Irina had decided she didn't want to perform that night – the sickness being an excuse -; she didn`t know if she now resented the young upstart that had taken the role.

“Fine, thanks”, the other soprano said, sitting down in the sofa while the seamstress helped her with the zip. Which was not accurate of course but practical. Elena slided behind the room divider. A wave of Irina's musky perfume invaded the room. Elena sneezed. Madame Ardeleanu crossed her long legs “Fortunately I didn't caught the flu yet”.

“Neither did I”, Elena argued, putting her clothes back on and stepping from behind the divider. She felt a little ashamed, with Irina's eyes apparently judging her. Another sneeze.

“Bless you”, Irina said politely and stepping on her feet at the same time, in a movement one would call majestic. The blue dress was finally brought; a fantasy with multiple frills and an assorted mask adorned with feathers. “Your zarzuela fragment for the gala is an... interesting pick. “ Irina took off her leather jacket, throwing it on the sofa. As usual, Elena didn't know how to take her words. Were they meant as a compliment? “I, for example, decided to go in a more familiar ground. For me anyway”.

Madame Ardeleanu never had been risky in her choices, she knew which roles fitted her the most and stuck to them. In her case, she had picked a fragment from Puccini's _La Rondine_ for the gala, _Chi il bel sogno di Doretta_. She always sang it superbly. From the other side of the room, and while she was being helped into her ball gown, she looked back at Elena, who was gathering her handbag and briefcase.

“By the way, what happened exactly during the rehearsal yesterday? I was watching it from one of the boxes. Or rather listening. There's no visibility from there. Practical in certain cases”.

The Spanish soprano was speechless during several seconds, until she said to herself that she was being too paranoiac.

“There was a strain up there” she pointed to her own throat, and emerged from behind the divider, with the seamstress closing the zip. She looked both beautiful and vain as a peacock. She looked herself at the mirror as the other woman started to use the pins . “Tomorrow it will be a swollen throat. I recommend a visit to the doctor. Maybe he can give you a shot” Elena considered it. Carmen didn't have to know. “And maybe” Irina went on “Can recommend you some sleeping pills. No offence, but you look like you need them”.

And she turned her back on Elena, busy with adjusting the dress in her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) A translation of Lorca's Little Viennesse Waltz here https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-viennese-waltz/  
> (2) To "mark" during a rehearsal is to sing lightly or in a half voice, as a means of preserving vocal health and preserve fatigue.  
> (3) La Marchenera is a work by Moreno Torroba. These two verses mean I have fallen for a stranger/who captured me with his eyes. If you want to listen to the romanza (in Spanish operetta a.k.a. zarzuela "arias" are frequently called like that) there you go https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GfmcJl0IwOg. Guests singers appearing at Die Fledermaus are part of the tradition.  
> (4) From Act I of Mozart's Le Nozze di Figaro  
> (5) Of course Lorenzo da Ponte, was a very colourful personality but here Elena cites him as Mozart libretist for three of his most known operas, Le Nozze di Figaro, Don Giovanni and Così fan Tutte.  
> (6) Given the conditions of in-house and even radio broadcast in the 50s, it wasn't that infrequent that fragments were distorted, in extremely bad sound or lost when the whole recordings were released decades later. So certain labels did a "patchwork" with better sounding fragments, generally from the same artists. Still, it's not very honest. Callas recording of Verdi's Macbeth is one of these. As for Alberto Lizzio, whose name is easily found as the conductor of low-cost labels, he was an invention of record producer and conductor Alfred Scholz. He went so far as to invent two marriages, a tragic car accident and a son for his phantom conductor. "Lizzio's" recordings are actually older performances conducted by other individuals who, generally, weren't asked permission for said recordings release. He's far from being the only phantom conductor (another example is René Köhler, fictional conductor invented by William Barrington-Coupe as part of his plagiarism fraud).
> 
> Aand that's all for today. Hope you enjoyed. Until the next one! As usual feel free to comment!


	27. Es lebe Champagner der Erste!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call, there's literally nothing else. But go and tell that to Poulenc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, Happy New Year, dear readers. New year, old disclaimer about this story taking some "real" details and throwing them in a different universe. Also old disclaimer about my occasional difficulties with English grammar. Well, there I try to do something "different". For this fic, anyway. You'll judge if I succeeded or not. As usual, if there's a reference or two probably end notes will clarify them. Enjoy.

**XXVII**

**_Es lebe Champagner der Erste!_ **

  
  
  


_Die Majestät wird anerkannt,_

_anerkannt, rings im Land!_

_Jubelnd wird Champagner_

_der Erste sec genannt!_

(...)

_Es lebe Champagner der Erste!_

(His majesty is acknowledged,

acknowledged through the land,

he’s jubilantly crowned

Champagne the First

Long live Champagne the First!)

JOHANN STRAUSS II, Die Fledermaus, Act II

  
  
  
  


**2019**

**January**

( _There were joyful noises on the other side of the line, loud singing, the sound of heavy stage machinery at work, laughs and someone loudly singing just next to the person he was calling to. It was a contrast to the place where he was, next to the piano, after he had briefly left his wife in the nearby room, watching one of these new year specials every country pull off and that are normally filmed at some point, to avoid problems of schedule of the artists that appeared_ ) _._

“Hello? Happy New Year, my... What do you mean with _if you call me again I'm going to throw the phone in the river Wien_ . Very well, I won't call you again, ever, I'm too afraid of what you can do to me, I'll go to the bunker and hide myself and... I wish you an horrible 2019, is that better? Yes, It's me, who exactly did you think... Unbelievable, that you can use that language with your sister, I pity her... Maybe you two weren't arguing, as you say, but still... I can't barely hear you, who is supposed to be yelling _Auld lang syne_ , just right you, a.... drunken polar bear? And anyway it's been 2019 for half an hour, it's not the time of singing that song anymore... Well, then tell the drunken Finnish bass if he may be kind enough to sing in another place... Thank you. Much better... It's a charming tradition to sing that but we didn't need him around, do we? Now I can hear you clearly. Yes, consider the call like a New Year present... An exception, yes. Alphonse always tells that kind of thing or so I've been told, and probably he's right, my dear, but let's break the rules for today... Yes, he told me you were crying that night, you didn't need to be afraid, don't pay attention to everything you see on Twitter, it was just a random group of idiots using a puppet, it's being already investigated...”

( _So she had seen that macabre performance pull out by some random yellow vests, with his puppet being beheaded and real – animal – blood added for the purpose of shocking the viewers; all that live on facebook, which had alarmed her to the point she had called Alphonse. Who could barely made sense of her_ )

“I just wanted to listen to your voice in the phone, talking directly to me, it's not the same when we write each other, or when I listened to your _Macbeth_ the other day, pity you are not all alone, the conversation would be more interesting... To the Devil with critics, Elena, you were superb, who cares if your _pianissimo_ didn't went exactly how they wanted... Ah, but I am totally serious, don't be so harsh with yourself... So you all are having a party backstage? No, I am at la Lanterne, we filmed my New Year speech and went to celebrate the New Year here, we had a little party before, with the palace staff... You'll see it tomorrow in the news I guess... No, _they_ won't like it, _they_ only would like if I hanged myself or something of the style, live, on HD... Please, Elena, don't. It's a joke, how could you think I am serious on that...”

( _He should remember not to made another joke about that again; now she seemed in the verge of tearing up, in stark contrast with the joy that all these people surrounding her were experiencing; she imagined her there, still in her costume for the gala of Die Fledermaus, and yet all alone, as alone as he was right now in that room_ )

“Ruffin? So you have an alert or how does that work? No, I'm not surprised, but it's his way of making politics, he doesn't... No, he's not saying he wants me dead, only what he has heard... The book he wrote? He apparently has a problem with my face, but to be fair I only have read the fragments the press printed, and anyway it's fashionable to write books against me, there's a collection already, it happens with every single president... Yes, but we weren't on the same classroom, he's older... Honestly if you had heard what the mayors told me the other day, _ending like Kennedy_ sound like mild (1)... Elena, don't cry. Again, nothing will happen... Nightmares? You were having nightmares? I'm sorry about that... Very well then, I'll stop talking of this, and you won't talk about nightmares... Ah, of course! Did you know, I still have your mail from last year, both indeed... What about sending me another of the same kind... Have you improved your writing skills, did I inspire you in some way?... Now that you have properly done your research, your text would be more accurate and without need to plagiarize... That language, young lady!... Yes, I know you are not alone, I was only teasing you and, besides, I am...”

( _He stopped because he thought he heard someone coming, but it was only_ Nemo _carrying one of his toys. He headed to the glass door, waving his tail. Too late to go to the gardens, he whispered while holding the phone against his chest. And too chilly. The dog dropped the toy, which once had been shaped like a giraffe, and lied on the carpet_ )

“Excuse me, Elena, it was only the dog... Yes, I think he would like you too _even if you are a cat person_ , he's nice with everyone, except with ravens maybe; he enjoys pursuing them... Sitting on the piano bench, and alone in the room if one doesn't count the dog, yes, why are you asking, you want to tease me, eh?... In the middle of that party backstage, what a scandal!... Yes, I am sitting on the piano bench, and I am right now caressing the keys like that time in that attic of yours, there's even a mark on the wood in this piano, apparently someone left a cold drink on it like you did on yours, that night in Madrid. No one knows under what presidency, by the way, and that happens too often. Maybe they were distracted with other things... They were always distracted with _that_ thing, tho... What do you mean I made you blush? I can barely hear you, between your whispers and their singing. Since when is _Berliner luft_ a thing in Vienna. Thank you very much, that... er... thing is going to be stuck in my head the rest of the night, please leave it to the Berliner Philharmoniker (2) “

( _He definitely had nothing against the Berliner Philharmoniker or the Summer concerts at the Waldbühne, and actually didn't give a damn about Berliner luft, exception made of that time they used vuvuzelas during the encore only because it was 2010 and the World Cup was ongoing_ (3) _; he had no positive memories of either of the two events. No doubt Elena had better ones of that particular edition with her country conquering its one and only star; he was pretty sure her opinion of vuvuzelas and orchestras were the same as his_ )

“Yes, I know you can't leave that party right now, you would do what exactly if you could... Ah, very interesting, I would definitely help you out of that dress, I have seen the photos. And of the petticoat, I know there's one. And of the corset, in case is there, and I am kind of sure judging by... That black ribbon on your neck and the gloves may could stay, and, as for the feather on your hair... Your language again! As I told you once, I adore your imagination, so don't complain if I try to make it work... Mine is fine, thanks, even if busy with studying for what awaits me in these debates... No, on the contrary, I enjoy these things and learning about, example given, the mating customs of pyrenaic bears (4). You see, everything leads to the same... Why the worry, you'll see it live on TV, it's part of the plan, there will be several debates, we are going to occupy the mediatic space, they try to reduce me to silence, but they are wrong if... No, Elena, for goodness sake, don't talk about them like they were a bunch of savages, most people doesn't behave like that, nothing will happen, only me answering whichever question they'll made. You'll see.”

( _There's another big noise coming from Vienna, the sound of bottles, or glasses being broken,he's not sure; he's not sure if she's not slightly drunk, either_ )

“What was that... How many bottles were broken exactly? Well, that's a mess, and regrettable, it's not a bad wine; for an Austrian one anyway... Oh, come on, Elena, that's not being smug, we come from lands with better ones, both of us... Don't tell my Healthcare Minister yet but no, I am not recommending that dry month thing or whichever is called... Nobody was hurt I hope... Glad to hear that... What are they singing now? Really?... That one? Yes, I know the damned thing, like everyone in the planet... I don't live under a rock, you see... Please tell them to bring back _Berliner luft_ , at least that has a certain resemblance with music, I can't believe I am saying this... Frustrated? A bit, yes, you know it; but regardless of what happened later, we already knew last time that you wouldn't be visiting France that soon... No, I'm not leaving by now, either; no official visit, no nothing, only the indispensable in Brussels and the rest is the debate, as I told you... and you have nothing planned there, as far I know... A _Norma_ on tour, did you say? It would be good if you could pop out at Brussels for eh... negotiations with La Monnaie... Well, we always knew it was going to be like this, no?... Hmmm, that's amusing, first you tell me repeatedly that you are not alone and that I'm going too far and next you are asking me again about what would happen to the feather on your hair once I have taken out that dress, and the petticoat and the corset... Well, whatever underwear you have on, Elena, it doesn't make a difference, it's just an obstacle for the question you made, so I'll get rid of it immediately and then... Eeh, no no no, that's gross, who do you think I am, that was not my idea at all... Glad you are relieved about it, but I wonder how did you came out with that one... Yes, I love how your imagination works, I just said it, but there are limits, you know... Elena, _seriously_ ... What's up, fellow, you really need to? _Now_?”

( _There's an impatient bark from the dog, who jumps in his four legs and walks to the door giving to the gardens, then looks back at him, tail wagging again, whining. He sighs and opens the door;_ Nemo _runs into the dark and suddenly he's out of sight;; a cold breeze invades the room and he shudders_ )

“Yes, excuse me, the dog needed to go out just right now, it's better to let him go outside than having an accident like the other time, even if there's no cameras around today... I only hope he doesn't venture too far, it's really cold outside, and I don't want to catch a dog at this hour of the night, on that park... A pair of jeans and a shirt, in case you are interested, not the best outfit to walk in a night like this one with a dog... He's not coming back... I'm afraid I'll have to go and catch him. No, it's not raining here; a bit cloudy and nothing else... _Nemo!_ He's barking, as you can hear... Yes, I'm in the garden right now, looking around... No, I will not get a cold, I'll try not to, at least, and how about you... Thought that you sounded a little hoarse at the beginning... Take care of that, please, dear... What do you mean I am sounding like your manager? Is that... bad? I thought she was a sort of second mother for you...”

( _The dog has come back, and he jumps on Emmanuel like he'd not seen him in decades; the president avoids the fall in the last moment, but his phone ends on the grass. He picks it, takes Nemo's collar and both are back inside. He closes the door again, relieved_ )

“Are you still there? Yes, we had a little... mishap, so to speak... Wait a moment, when I worry about your health is the same... Well, I did remember to have written you that, yes... Paternalistic, you say? I don't think I am being paternalistic, but I am worried about all these nightmares you said you are having, and this is why... this is why I would like to give your imagination some new, mostly pleasant ideas; example given, we were talking about that long, beautiful, white feather adorning your head... Once we were done with your dress, and your petticoat, and your underwear – you still didn't tell me if you are wearing a corset or not – then I would remove all these hairpins that are surely giving you a headache, am I correct? And, besides, no one of us would want you to get stuck. Imagine, for example, Garnier, even if I'd probably would pick a more comfortable box this time. To see you again surrounded with all that red. I wouldn't mind it. And... that white feather, caressing your skin, softly... You are wrong, I didn't mean tickling but _caressing_ you... Maybe is immodest to say this, but I know perfectly where to strike with that feather, I know that spot in your ribs... No, dear, it's deliberate, these details are up to your imagination... And then I'd kiss you everywhere that feather has brushed your skin... No, Elena, I'm not doing that even if I'm alone in the room, I am _not_ _all_ alone... ”

( _Suddenly the amount of noise coming from the Staatsoper seems to decrease. Has she hidden somewhere? Her voice comes now more clearly to him, yearning and vaguely hoarse; Nemo, again on his four feets or rather paws, has picked the toy in his mouth and push it softly against his knee, as if indicating he wants to play; he takes the toy in his hand, throws it to the other corner of the room; the dog runs to catch it like he was on open air; he'll probably break something_ )

“Ah, yes, I'll be travelling across France, basically the debate is about that... Even Corsica, yes. One day I'll tell you the story about my old Communist Corsican friend who wasn't Corsican at all... All the students of Sciences Po knew him... we all used to tell the waiters in the café that he was a film producer... Imagine of which kind... (5) Yes, that, exactly... So if you find that funny, you'll think hilarious that we all pretended to be working for him... Ah, thank you very much, should I feel flattered or offended? There, you have already more material for your dreams... You are welcome my dear”

( _And of course the disaster happens; the second time Nemo runs after that giraffe-shaped thing the dog's tail hits a really awful vase decorated with green flowers; a present from some ambassador under one of his predecessors, he doesn't know exactly how many decades the thing has been there, but it falls and breaks in a thousand pieces, causing a considerable amount of noise_ )

“I'm afraid I'm going to end this conversation right now... I'm pretty sure the majordomo will be there in thirty second or less, and he won't be alone... One night I pushed up certain button by accident and the security detail showed up immediately, insisting in they had to see me even if I was... No, I'm not telling you what I was doing.... I'll write you later... Oh for goodness sake, can't you push him or something, why is he again there?... Tell him he can yell that thing next year again. Happy new year again, my dear. Sleep well, you can write me about one of these interesting dreams of yours later... Yes. I'll try. You see, I'll try. Good night my dear”.

( _And so the phone call ended, presumably with that Finnish bass singing again in the soprano's ears_ we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet _; the last thing he ever heard from Vienna, though, was her swearing, one of these blasphemies so common in the Spanish language, one he, however couldn't identify. He suspected, as the majordomo and two members of his security detail arrived, that it had nothing to do with kindness or wishing a Happy New Year_ ).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we go with the final notes
> 
> (1) You are here reading a RPF about French politics so you probably know who Ruffin is, that he was at the same high school than Macron (but not in the same class) and that he spends his time making "non-sense stuff" (trucs à la con) as member of the opposition. And yes he wrote a book against his former school mate and went next to the Élysée claiming that Yellow Vests had told him that bit about "ending like Kennedy".  
> (2) Berliner Luft is a musical piece coming from Lincke's operetta Frau Luna. It's a sort-of, kinda equivalent of Radeztky Marsch is for the Wiener Philharmoniker, a festive piece used as encore in certain occasions. And with the audience taking part in the fun, not clapping but whistling.  
> (3) The traditional Summer concert of the Berliner Philharmoniker at the open-air Waldbühne venue always ends with the aforementioned piece. And, in case you are wondering, the performance with vuvuzelas happened. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMb45oX9jJ8  
> (4) No, really, he knew even the name of the bear in question (Canelito)  
> (5) All this based in a real article, go figure. Search for Robert Piumati.
> 
> That's all for now! Hope you enjoyed. Feel totally free to give your opinion, criticism, etc etc. And with that, until the next chapter! :)


	28. Mai Tosca alla scena più tragica fu!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of wine and tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter is up! As usual, you'll find some clarifications in the end notes and probably all the spelling mistakes the corrector didn't find. Enjoy.

**XXVIII**

**_Mai Tosca alla scena più tragica fu!_ **

  
  


Tosca: _Tu ridi all'orrida pena?_

Scarpia: _Mai Tosca alla scena più tragica fu!_

(Tosca: Does that suffering make you laugh?

Scarpia: Tosca was never more tragic on the stage!)

PUCCINI, _Tosca,_ Act II.

  
  


On the floor, the tenor had apparently fallen asleep. So she pushed her frustration back and did what she was supposed to do according to the libretto: she knelt and removed the cloak that covered him. He was, indeed, gently snoring; fortunately there was no broadcast, not even from a radio station. No one that wasn't on stage or on the wings would notice. As Illica and Giacosa had indicated, Elena leaped to her feet, horrified: (1)

_Mario! Mario! Morto! Morto!,_ she sang. Certain sopranos solved this moment screaming a lot, especially when they were in bad shape, it was a trick that audiences didn't mind and, in certain cases, celebrated for the sake of dramatism. But of course she sang the lines, and immediately after she threw herself over the _dead_ body of Mario Cavaradossi, painter and revolutionary wannabe, while her own whole being seemed to tremble with her sobs. The opera was almost done and the fate of her character, the singer Floria Tosca, was as sealed as the painter's. The smell of liquor that came to her nose confirmed her suspicions and that no one had kept an eye on the tenor before the performance had started.

_Oh Mario, morto? Tu? Così? Finire così?_ , she went on singing. _To end like this!_ She heard the confuse voices coming offstage, that of the henchmen having discovered the murder of the villain of the play, the Baron Scarpia, at the hands of Tosca herself. Two of these men, Sciarrone and Spoletta, finally emerged from the stairway leading of what was purported to be the upper part of the Castel Sant'Angelo. One of them seemed to be a little tipsy; fortunately his role in this scene was reduced to shouting and waving at her, while the other, who should charge against Floria and try to catch her, was one of the sober individuals in the opera house; she wasn't part of the tipsy ones, just like him, but that wasn't her merit.. _Ah, Tosca! Pagherai ben cara la sua vita!_ (Ah, Tosca, you'll pay for his life most dearly), she heard, and physically prepared herself for the last effort. And tried to no get caught in the trim of her dress. In a very typical way of solving the scene, she made a gesture that would look as a push from the audience's point of view. It was actually a mere, practical way for the soprano to get rid of her own ill-fitted cloak: she had barely touched him when “Spoletta” crumbled to the ground, the bothersome piece of cloth between his hands.

“ _Colla mia!”_ was her answer, as the music, almost cinematic in its dramatism, seemed to guide her actions: hiking the long skirt of her dress before running to the parapet, climb some steps in the meantime and throw herself to the inferior courtyard, or rather to the mattress carefully placed backstage. She sang her last line on the opera ( _the_ last line of the opera, actually) “ _O Scarpia, avanti a Dio!_ ”, defying the ruthless but very much dead Baron whose blood she had spilled at the end of Act II and made her final leap, falling seconds later in the mattress with a thud. The curtain fell as she heard the last bars of Puccini's score, while warm applause broke up in the auditorium.

“Congratulations, Madame”, she heard, as she accepted the first hand that offered her help. It belonged to the singer playing the Sacristan, a secondary, sort of comic relief role who had been sitting in his dressing room during acts II and III and now was back, ready to appear at the final curtain calls. Still with his wig and makeup on, he looked a little bedraggled and, above all, tired. “Someone go and pick the tenor from the floor!”, she overheard as she got up from the mattress, her other hand in her forehead. She felt like she was floating and relieved the whole thing was over. It had been a long day, and one that had ended in a completely unexpected way: namely singing Tosca in this opera house.

“Thank you”, she answered. The man was surrounded by the boisterous group of young children who played the choir members of Sant'Andrea della Valle in Act I, while the also extremely young soloist who had sung the off stage song at the beginning of Act III remained aloof, already convinced, at his young age, of his own value. The tenor was brought backstage by two robust scene shifters, while arguing that he was perfectly fine. He was not, and, even if no one during his curtain call minutes later could have noticed it, so artfully was in his conceal of difficulties with verticality. For Elena, one of the few sober individuals left along with Spoletta, the applause once she appeared before the red curtain, bowing with her ill-fitted dress and her disheveled hair, one thing was more inebriating than whatever the tenor had been drinking until she showed up: the applause. She smiled as from the boxes people who hadn't expected her at all throwed bouquets and yelled _Brava!_ All this had been planned for another individual, but she knew they really meant it. After all, hasn't she just saved them from a cancellation?

How could she imagine that moment just early in the morning? She had been in Boston, singing the first of two recitals the night before. Nothing extraordinary, really, just a little gig that would made her earn money with relatively little effort, with a program that had much in common with others she had already sung. It was enough to change the order of the pieces includes, taking out the Mercadante cabaletta to include _Depuis le jour_ from Charpentier's _Louise_ , which was more a crowd pleaser than that unknown belcantist gem, even if few people really gave a damn about the entire opera or its sequel _Julien_ (2) . Meanwhile, Carmen was in talks to record another recital with her usual label. This time mainly dedicated to Spanish repertoire. It was a sort of rite de passage for every single Spanish-speaking opera singer. An even a territory where others ventured, too. It wasn't only that they included, now and then, Lara's _Granada_ as an encore; you had a bunch of well known, extremely famous or even legendary singers. The results, of course, varied from a pretty good recording of Turina's _Cantares_ with Tebaldi to a neck-breaking, sung at an absurd speed copla with Beverly Sills (3). Someone had to learn that extremely fast tempi didn't add more _local color_ to Spanish music.

After her recital, then, she had gone back to the hotel, prior of one of these dreamless nights. Only early in the next morning she or rather Carmen received a desperate call from the San Francisco Opera that she, at the beginning, took as a joke. As it turned out, it was not: their gala performance of Puccini's _Tosca_ was imperiled after the soprano caught a bug that had her confined between the fourth walls of her hotel or rather in those of the bathroom and the understudy was sick. All had been a fatal combination of misfortunes that had fallen on them in a question of hours. There was literally no one else and the only soprano around – as in the opposite coast of the country - who could step in and had Floria Tosca on her repertoire was hers. If she was kind enough to take a plane and save the performance, she would earn the eternal gratitude of their opera house and she would be generously paid of course.

To Elena, the name of the San Francisco Opera House, eternal gratitude or not, was a reminder of that terrible evening struggling her way through half of another work by Puccini. However, since she enjoyed a challenge and probably it would be a good publicity stunt – and good publicity was welcome in these moments – she accepted and there she went, in a flight which, to add more uncertainty, suffered a little delay. And, above all, to obtain a triumph in the same place where she had felt so humiliated. Since the performance was a gala with a ball, the board just rescheduled some things and the tenor, as well as other members in the cast, ended drinking a bit too much, maybe. By the moment when Elena, being swiftly dressed with the costume that fitted her well enough to not fall in the middle of Act I, entered the scene with a flower bouquet in one hand and a closed umbrella in the other, the tenor had pulled out a quite good version of _Recondita armonia_ while he bravely fought the effects of alcohol. It was rumored that he had sung in way worse circumstances. So when she, half nervous, half galvanized by which seemed to be walking in the edge of disaster, emerged from the wings singing _Mario!_ and their duet began, there was a soft encouraging applause from a sector of the parterre, maybe the same that had encouraged her last year; the clapping was promptly silenced by the part of the audience that had come here to listen to the music, whoever was singing it.

The interval between Act I and Act II gave her some time to talk to the stage director and agree with the baritone in the way they would perform the second act. He was a veteran singer, more of the park and bark school than of the most recent one, accustomed to perform in whichever the way directors required. They arrived to a compromise and Act II went smoothly enough. Elena's rendition of _Vissi d'arte_ was warmly received by a round of applause and there she was, at the curtain call, after another interval – the staging was difficult to manage – and Act III, one of her hands holding that of the conductor and the other of the tenor, still bravely on his feet after his extremely brief nap. They bowed, the three of them.

***

Despite Emmanuel's efforts with that call, Elena didn't have nothing to write back at him, as far as dreams were concerned. Not even about nightmares, thanks to the pills the doctor she saw in Vienna had recommended her; one of these made her fall in bed like a dead woman, and the next morning she awake with no memories of a dream. They were a blessing, just like these cortisone shots that allowed her to sing the entire run of _Macbeth_ without cancelling. That Carmen had put a certain time in recovering and wasn't following her around had helped the soprano to continue that practice without her knowing. After all, she could control herself, it was not like she had an addiction. It's true that, as far as the sleeping pills were concerned, she needed an extra of caffeine to feel fully awake in the morning. But this was a minor problem, for the moment she was capable of sleeping better and that was less trouble for her.

In her dressing room, once the wig – ill fitting, like all the rest – was taken from her head, she massaged her scalp, which felt itchy.

“You better hurry up, Elena” Carmen entered the room, dressed in black, and looking still pale. She was wearing her hair in a tight bun and her earrings looked like falling stars. Silver? Brass? Steel? Elena didn't know. They were new, in any case.

“Well, where's my _Congratulations, you were magnificent_ or, in the worst case scenario, _What on Earth was that_ , _Elena_?”, the soprano said.

“I am sorry, I'll start from the beginning”, the manager sighed “Congratulations, you were quite impressive for an unrehearsed performance even if the conductor lost you twice and the tenor was singing under influence”, Carmen added at an incredible speed “Better that way? Now hurry up. It's not my fault that donors are out there all anxious to greet you”.

“Better that way, sort of. They can wait a little while, I remember perfectly the things they said after the _Butterfly_ ” Elena massaged her temples and retired the last hairpin left “I feel like the last individual who wore this wig was the real Floria Tosca in the morning of June, 19th, 1800” (4).

“You know that she was not a real person and that in any case, she would be dead by that day”.

“Precisely. It felt like it had been put for the last time on an individual who has been dead for the last two centuries”; she took off Tosca's earrings too. They were tear-shaped, made of fake pearls and rhinestones and the original costume designer had taken her inspiration from the ones Josephine Bonaparte was wearing in that painting by Jacques-Louis David, _The Coronation of Napoleon_. She didn't know if the Empress of the French had her earlobes aching as much as hers after all that paraphernalia at Notre-Dame, but it seemed probable; even fake, her own earrings were weighty. She took off the other one and left it on the desk, between a box of sweets and a notebook. The notebook was hers, the sweets were not. Originally meant for the other soprano, like the flowers that had been adorning the room since early in the afternoon, when they started to be delivered, as it had been planned by the donors with a week of anticipation. She wondered if that night the understudy took her place during the performance of Madama Butterfly, she had found later a dressing room with flowers meant for Mrs. Elena Mendieta. Who knew.

“I think we should sent all these flowers to her hotel”, Elena said, standing up “Yes, I must hurry, I know, I know. But I think a shower would be...” Nice. Adequate.

“Of course. But _hurry up_.”

The shower helped her to relax, maybe a little too much; Elena was in a sort of haze when she stepped into the hall, which she always had found pretentious, but it was better not to voice that opinion. This gala was not as spectacular as the traditional one that opened the season, and that was organized by the Opera Guild (5). She examined the people attending to the reception, the women in their long dresses and the men in their tuxedos even Chus was wearing one, but, to be fair, it looked like it had been dropped on his shoulders. The members of the cast were there, as well as the conductor and a part of the orchestra, ready to play during the ball. Even if part of the reception and cocktail had been celebrated while they were waiting for her arrival, the party and the dinner were supposed to last until late in the night. A brief round of applause welcomed her, and she received a little flower bouquet from the board. This, unlike the ones from the dressing room, was meant for her.

Dressed in red and a smile pasted in her face, the artistic director of the opera house approached her; beyond the fixedness of her traits, Elena guessed she felt genuinely relieved and cheerful. To a certain extent, anyway.

“May I introduce you to some of our donors and members of the opera guild?”, she said. The soprano, obviously, wasn't in the position of saying _No_. It was not that these kind of things were their cup of tea, but they formed part of the routine of an opera singer, too. So her lips curved in another conventional smile, to a certain extent similar to that of the artistic director and allowed herself to be carried, so to speak, from group to group, dedicating a similar amount of attention to all of them. She received the congratulations of old habitués of the parterre and of celebrities, of has-been stars of telefilms she had seen as a child, of members of the political elite and of a jolly Russian tycoon who had purchased several magazines and a local newspaper. And, last, in one of the corners of the hall, between a column and a table where they had disposed a variety of wines, along with flowers in pink vases, she saw him.

In all these swashbuckling novels she had learnt to love thanks to her grandfather, she had been often amused at some of the reactions the characters had. These ladies who stomped the floor with her feet – they were always little and aristocratic, save if one was Constance Bonacieux (6)-, bit their lips till the blood came, fainted or exclaim _Ah, Damnation!_ at the tip of a hat. She had never believed that human, rational beings would express themselves in such a way, regardless of the century in which they had lived. However, she would have liked to act like one of them, once she saw him. The man from that café in Barcelona, a glass in his hand, an impeccable tuxedo making he look taller than he actually was and looking down at her from the tip of his long and aristocratic nose.

“May I introduce you to...” the artistic director started.

“Oh, Madame Mendieta and I have met previously, isn't it?”

Elena's tense smile widened, showing her teeth.

A sudden noise at their backs distracted them for a moment. The tenor, which was still standing for some unexplained reason and had been making selfies with half of the guests, was arguing with the conductor. In czech. With a movement of one hand, the tenor made fall a plate full of vanilla ice creams, causing a concerned _oooh_ from some of the donors next to him. Then went on arguing.

“Excuse me, I must try to solve something...” the artistic director said as an apology before turning her heels on them and going to mediate between the two men. Elena looked briefly in their direction and then back to the man.

“I'd hoped to never see you again, sir”.

“ _Bonsoir_ , Madame” he replied coldly “It's not that it was my intention to meet you here either, but fate has decided otherwise. As everyone present, I was expecting another singer in your place. It's not that I would refuse the opportunity of attending one of your performances.”

“You'll better not”, the soprano said “I'd arrange things in order you never put a foot in the same opera house I'm singing if it was in my power”.

“Fortunately it is not. That was not very kind from you, Madame. This never was personal. And I admire your artistry” he stopped, smiled wryly “Come on, Madame Mendieta. Would you like a glass of this wine? For some reason and while this is a land of wines they are serving the imported ones. Take this one for example. It's from Spain”

She took a step back, while looking at the glass half full of ruby red liquid.

“What a pity there's no knife around”, she replied, finally grabbing the glass (7).

“Ah, Madame, so you are still in character” he looked at her “No, not a knife, and...”

“Why do you hate him so much?” Elena asked then “Why filter these photos to the Italian outlet?” she was feeling how tears mounted to her eyes, and was fighting them back.

“Madame Mendieta, I did warn you. More than once, actually.” he sounded unmoved “You could have done the noble thing and cut your ties the next day after our interview in Barcelona but...”

“Noble? Is what you did _noble_? In what universe is that supposed to be...”

“But” he went on “you insisted in seeing him. You let me no options, actually”.

“You didn't answer to my question. Why do you hate him so much to leak this just right now, when he's fighting these...” she stopped, searching for a word insulting enough, and failed.

“Well, to bring him back to Earth obviously. Now we'll see if he's capable to stand up again or if he's going to perish in this ordeal.” at the word _perish_ she gave up and finally a stream of tears went down her cheeks. These wasn't the tears she had learnt to spill for HD streamings and that looked _beautiful_ , so to speak, but real ones that reddened her eyes and her nose, forcing her to sniffle and search for a tissue in her clutch. A waiter passed by, holding a tray with sorbets, and stopped with a look of concern in his face.

“It's everything all right, Madam..?” he had a Southern accent.

“Yes... I think I'm just allergic to these” she said, making a gesture towards the flowers adorning the table. She took a sip of wine.

“We could take them out if you want to, Madam”, the waiter said.

“No, it doesn't matter. It will be OK. Thank you”.

He left, while the soprano looked at the aristocrat. To say he seemed not impressed by the display of her grief was an understatement.

“Do you find that funny, to joke about his death?”, Elena said, her voice heating.

“Please, Madame, no need to exaggerate, you know perfectly I didn't mean _perish_ in a literal, but in an political sense” he looked at her, apparently puzzled. What did _he_ know about her; what did he know about what political failure would do to him. Elena wasn't sure, but probably he would be terribly unhappy. “Anyway” he added “fate, as with this performance, decided for you. _Maria Stuarda_ , I mean. You enjoyed this while it lasted and...” he said, strangely echoing Francesca.

“Fate has nothing to do with my... withdrawal from _Maria Stuarda_ , and I'm going to fight back” she lowered her voice “...And it's not over,it's not over I assure you” she had dried the last traces of her tears now.

“Well, then we'll see if you succeed or perish. Not in a literal sense, of course”.

That was the night in which the bad dreams returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are for the final notes!  
> 1) Elena's misadventures about having to fly from one to other coast and part of the cast being a little tipsy are loosely based in a story told about Placido Domingo stepping for another tenor in Otello. His Desdemona, who had drunk a little too much while waiting, fell asleep in the last scene after being "murdered".  
> 2) Depuis le jour is quite popular... unlike the entire opera by Charpentier. Louise tells the story of a young working class girl that fells in love with a poet and ends eloping with him. Julien (the name of our poet), its sequel, is even less performed.  
> 3) Renata Tebaldi (1922-2004) one of the greatest sopranos of the 20th Century and Callas' great "rival". Her recording of Turina's Cantares can be listened here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHYJzfX2oGU. For Sills' hilarious take on Spanish copla, there you go: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5aq_QfgFWpw  
> 4) Based on Sardou's play La Tosca, Puccini's opera has a precise date. Action takes place between the afternoon of June 17, 1800, and the dawn of the following day. So evidently by the 19th the heroine of the play would have been very much dead... had she existed.  
> 5) There is an opera ball in San Francisco to open the season in September. I just took the liberty to add a random one at the beginning of the year.  
> 6) According to Dumas "her hands lacked finesse, nor did her feet indicate a woman of quality"  
> 7) Scarpia offers a sip of Spanish wine to Floria Tosca, just after her lover, who had been tortured by the Baron's police, is dragged away from her
> 
> Well, that's all for today! As usual, feel free to comment and criticise. Until the next one.


	29. Sombra de mi pensamiento

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of people leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, after a week of "personal" difficulties, here's the new chapter. As usual, this fic is written in my second language so be patient with mispells. Some day I'll edit all those which escaped the autocorrector and revisions... some day. Meanwhile have fun with all this. As usual, if there's an opera reference lost out there, you'll find probably an answer in the final notes. Without further ado, here's the chapter. Enjoy.

**XXIX**

**_Sombra de mi pensamiento_ **

  
  


_ Más cerca de mí te siento _

_ cuanto más huyo de tí _

_ pues tu imagen es en mí _

_ sombra de mi pensamiento _

(The more I run away from you

the more closer you are to me

for your image haunts me,

the very shadow of my thoughts)

JOAQUÍN TURINA,  _ Cantares,  _ from  _ Poem in the form of songs _ .

  
  


He could have heard his bodyguard flexing his muscles on the second row, just behind him. The man on the yellow vest, his long, black hair barely retained by a matching bandana, had decided to sit next to the president, in the empty chair left by the moderator of the debate. He looked like he had just stepped out of  _ Easy Rider _ , and made a singular contrast with him, the dapper politician who, even after hours of debate with elected officials and inviting himself in this one held by citizens – this was far from being the only individual wearing the now infamous vest – looked impeccable and the tanned man who had left his roundabout for this hall, not expecting to find the president there. But unlike Emmanuel, he was at home at that little town not frequented by heads of State. Very calmly, the man interrogated him about what to do with his divorce and his driving license, which apparently had been denied. Could the president do something about that (1)?

Emmanuel remembered how one historian had joked about presidential elections – not the ones from 2017, but elections in general -, calling them  _ providential _ elections instead. Every five years French people elected an individual who instantly had to carry on his – there was, for the moment no  _ hers _ \- shoulders the hopes and frustrations of the entire nation. There was always too much expectation, always too much disappointment. No human being could even fulfill all what was expected from them, no human being could escape from the usual fate of being, ultimately, rejected by millions of citizens. And yet even when they hated that elected individual they had started to hate the moment he had said farewell to his predecessor - or even before, just after he had climbed these seven stairs and entered the palace after walking on that long red carpet -, they expected all from him. Thus they asked him about problems of their daily life; on their way back from another debate the presidential cortege, after having lunch at a low cost restaurant – he had a soft spot for their fries, and since Brigitte wasn't around in this trip, he could profit and eat things she normally wouldn't allow – was stopped so he could explain the details of their pensions to the inhabitants of a nearby village. The president, even for those who detested him, was a sort of demiurge who should help them with everything from beehives to problems with their employers. But no president is a demiurge and some things can't be fixed at them snapping their fingers; in fact, most things couldn't be fixed, snap or not snap.

_ Good evening, my dear. How are your recording sessions going? I mean, leaving aside that little incident you had at the underground. Having read the list of tracks of your future album, which opens with  _ El Vito _ and ends with Falla's  _ Polo (2) _ , I am a little ashamed of my lack of knowledge of the Spanish song repertoire. Obviously I have listened some of them previously. You told me once that Spaniards are the ones to blame for this, as if badmouthing one's country was a sort of exclusive. In my experience, you are not alone in this. _

His conversation with the biker yellow vest ended, and the man shook his hand before leaving the venue; it seemed he had stayed just for him. Emmanuel was skeptical about his own capacity of having convinced the man. He wasn't the first one of these improvised inhabitants of France's roundabouts he talked to; one had even visited him at l'Élysée, so to speak. The man, who talked about himself as a pacifist – and his record kind of confirmed it – had traveled on foot from his hometown to Paris, only to speak to the president. And, even if he wasn't in the palace when the man had arrived, yellow vest under a yellow parka, the case is he had been received... the next day. He had stopped in the middle of one of these gilded rooms, only a bit intimidated, refusing to take off his yellow parka. They had talked, or rather the president had left him talk; he had left the movement after that interview and returned home. The next thing Emmanuel knew about him was that the message in which he had told his hours inside the presidential palace had been lukewarmly received by most of the man's followers on Facebook. The rest had spent their time insulting him.

_ I profit from a moment of respite to write to you. So these guys really yelled at you and your Community manager because you two were talking in Spanish? Look what Brexit has done with certain individuals, good that there were decent people that stood up for you; I also saw the video - your swearing repertoire is growing, by the way -; I really pity the Londoners for they'll have to live with them. As for the videoclip they want to shoot... why on Earth they want to include a dancing horse? In any case, if you accept, have ready some clothes in order to change; that was one of the first things I learnt at the beginning of the campaign, thanks to the generous intervention of a cow – one day I'll tell you the story, you are going to laugh! -. The songs by Turina and Lorca you sent me are really beautiful, as well as Falla's lullaby...  _ 3) _ I had forgotten to what extent; thank you for the sample. Have fun in London, it's a wonderful city as you already know; forget the few rotten apples, we all know one. _

In fact, which kind of image these people had of him? Some of them had called him banker as an insult, he had answered that he didn't feel ashamed of his past working for Rothschild; he had been called a Parisian, he who came from Amiens. But this was repetitive and he was tired even if he didn't show it. On the contrary, and judging from the reactions to the first editions of the Great Debate, people was again dumbfounded. This time he didn't talk about Artificial Intelligence or things that seemed abstract to the inhabitants of a town like this one. As he had told Elena, he had enjoyed studying all the possible questions could be made to him, and always had an answer – oh the wonders of learning all these things. After hours and hours and when people started to simply give up – and after communist or elected officials from Le Pen's party had done their little show – and the news presenters' patience started to wear thin – he still went on, talking and talking. One or two journalists joked about his healthy prostate and most of them started to wait the time where, in the heat of debate, he would take off his jacket or sit down and take notes – in a positively rushed and indecipherable handwriting – to remember  _ who _ had said  _ what _ . The thing was, more time on screen for the president meant less for those so-called leaders of the yellow vests, from the one who had bragged about starting World War III with the documents obtained from a mysterious individual to the one who wanted a military coup and had caused a diplomatic incident with Italy. And little by little he would claw back his way, no to popularity – he would never be popular – but to stability. He knew how it worked.

__ _ Dissolve the chambers? Someone has told you that? Do you really think that I would appease things if I dissolved them? No, Elena, that wouldn't resolve anything, and would make advance Le Pen's party. It's the saddest thing. Mélenchon and his friends thinks people will side with them, that the left will have the majority if new parliamentary elections are called, but they are wrong. There's someone very quiet at this moment and it's certain blonde individual. I would lose my majority, maybe, or win one less wide; she would gain seats. And anyway, since when should a government dissolve the chambers when there is a violent protest? What would that mean for the rest of my presidence, for the ones that will come after me? I get you are worried but that's not how democracy works _ .

These towns, these meetings and debates, reminded him of the campaign, even if Justin had joked privately on Telegram about his own town halls – in which he, too, took off his jacket. How very little of the people that had surrounded him was left now; Sylvain had left, and Benjamin will leave soon too – he was focused on the municipal elections for the last year now, and besides, there was that scene of him escaping his office after a bunch of yellow vests smashed a vehicle against the door of the ministry. There was that photo of the young bunch of individuals that had followed him in the adventure of winning elections; Sylvain used to have a copy in his office, and Sibeth had one too. All together, in their headquarters, after winning the first tour. Most of them gone, it was impossible now to watch these documentaries about the campaign without a touch of melancholy. It was bound to happen, indeed most presidents just dismissed the team that had helped them to arrive to that red carpet, these seven steps that lead to the palace. But not Emmanuel of course, without a traditional party behind him. Now they were going down, one by one, and it was like someone was tearing out pages from a book.

It was very late when the cortege headed for the airport. He would be back to Paris in an hour. He knew the dozens of yellow vests that hadn't wanted to enter the hall would be there, in some place behind the security perimeter established by the prefecture. He doubted they'd go beyond booing at him anyway, but they were held back in any case, there were too many death threats; the movement had lost steam since the 10 th December and his televised speech, made without the hope of ending with the protests, but they'll be there, even if only would remain twenty, they'd be here until the European elections and maybe beyond. How could one expect otherwise? He remembered that protest had been held the day after he was elected, and even between the two rounds. People often forget that, even before he was inaugurated, some individuals were holding banners with  _ We'll hang the banker _ written on them (4). He looked at the last news in his phone; people commenting the debate; people sharing memes that had nothing to do with him but with some reality show instead; people sharing Elena's video insulting these two guys in London. He heard distractedly one of his advisers making a summary of the matters discussed that day, and of the themes that should be discussed during the official visit to Egypt. One of the very few he would make in a while.

__ _ Yes, I miss you, you know that. I have listened to the two samples you sent me again and again. You are probably smiling as you read this, with a hint of pride as you always do. Congratulations, Elena, because I can't get out of my head how you sang that,  _ sombra de mi pensamiento _ , the very shadow of my thoughts. Is that how you feel, too? _

__ Sometimes he felt it was ridiculous, all that, he writing this kind of things. But what he could to about it. With a gesture of his hand the advisor was kindly asked to close her mouth, wait for a while and to leave him rest for a moment or two. It was incredible, how even little gestures were read now. She obliged, in the forced intimacy of the backseat, in the darkness of the road. Emmanuel softened his silent order with a slight, courteous smile, and she answered with a similar one, before leaning on her seat and looking at the dark. He thought for a handful of seconds in what would be Elena doing at that hour. Was she asleep? Talking to her manager? Who knew. Maybe she was thinking about him, too; she would fly to Canada after recording her album in London. And then... there was that website that listed singers, operas and roles. One could follow her career more easy than his own agenda, a long series of cities in different continents, a month she would be in Amsterdam and another in Tokyo, always like a nomad, always involved in rehearsals, performances, galas, except in the occasions where her body gave up and was forced to rest.

He made yet another gesture to his advisor; they had some time before they arrived to the airport to discuss tomorrow's working dinner with the Greek prime minister.

***

“You may excuse my bluntness, Madame, but this industry is dead. Positively and utterly dead. First was piracy, then streaming services. No one buys classical albums now, yet here we are, recording recitals”

The sound engineer was glum while adjusting her glasses up her nose and giving Elena a pair of headphones. The soprano had requested to listen to the record she just made, in order to give her approval. Common procedure, especially in eras when rival labels edited multiple integrals of complete operas recorded in studio. Decca, EMI or Deutsche Grammophon had brought to life, so to speak, all the great sets of the past century, and remastered or re edited them constantly, as their own milking cow. A milking cow very limited to a very limited section of population anyway. It was like no one needed new studio recordings of  _ Aida _ having those of Solti, Karajan or Muti now at a budget price, no opera lover was interested in having a new  _ Macbeth _ when they had the Abbado set or why should they bother with Bellini's  _ La Sonnambula _ when Callas had reached the peak with all the versions she sang.

(And then you had all the rumors and legends about complete recordings never released, like that  _ Traviata _ vetoed by Carlo Maria Giulini, or the one released but with weird results, like that  _ Mefistofele _ with Di Stefano being replaced by Del Monaco or the KGB middling in the recording sessions of a  _ Don Carlo _ in Italian, because the mezzo was supposedly an agent that had been outed) (5)  


“But recitals still have a possibility. This is not exactly bread-and-butter repertoire but maybe you can sell it reasonably well.”

Industry was now more focused on selling DVDs from staged performances – and even from concert performances – and premium access to streaming services. They were focused, too, in unearthing obscure operas from the Baroque and beyond,  _ with period instruments and all that _ , as Carmen used to say, with unexpected disdain.

“Everything seems to be alright”, Elena said, listening to her own voice in the headphones. “Oh, that little click at the end of track 2... Can be fixed?”

“Of course”, the sound engineer said. “Or we can do another take, tomorrow. We have still a pair of sessions left. You can pick between the two”.

“Very well, until tomorrow then”.

_ I have to do this _ .  _ There's always a younger, more affordable singer that will step for you when you refuse to perform, or cancel too often, or people get tired of you _ .  _ There's always a replacement, and when you become expendable, your career is over and no one ever will remember you _ .

This was how she felt sometimes in her career: onward, always onward, even if maybe she was fated to be consumed by the flames and disappear, leaving a trace of light maybe, but ultimately being immolated, like in that scene with Brünnhilde riding her horse into the flames. A scene she would never sing, that was for sure.

Carmen came to pick her up in the hall, wearing white and grey, aside from her usual frown. She had forgot to put a pair of earrings on, which seemed unusual.

“Your taxi has arrived already, Elena.”, were her first words. She looked tired and didn't make further observations about her singing, even if she had been next to the hall were the recording was made.

The soprano looked at her, puzzled. More and more it seemed that her manager had something important to say, but what exactly, she didn't know.

“Glad to hear that. I want to be back at the hotel now. I think I need a shower and relax”.

“As usual. Have you already studied that part in the second act?”

In Canada she was due to debut in yet another role, that of  _ Fedora _ in Giordano's opera of the same name. Talking about lost recordings, there was always gossip about that time Corelli's wife or rather widow – the much dreaded Loretta (6) – had supposedly hidden the recording of his  _ Fedora _ with Callas in the title role. The opera wasn't long and had some interesting possibilities from the dramatic point of view, and there would be a DVD made of it. But she did have certain difficulties there; normally she would dip her nose into the score and never take her eyes from it until her problems were resolved, but lately her attention span was growing thinner. Anyway she would take the score in her hands and made look like she was studying it with painstaking care.

“Of course”, she lied, her mind in another place.

Carmen sighed as they sat in the backseat of the taxi and Elena tried to ease the pain in her feet. Her new boots were very pretty indeed but not comfortable. She was sorry about leaving vanity prevail over her comfort but it was too late to regret now. There was silence, not the silence they shared when they tacitly chose to not talk about her projects before strangers, but one of another kind, heavier. After massaging her knees, Elena decided to break it.

“Where did Chus go this time? London Tower again?” she asked lively.

“Madame Tussaud's”, Carmen answered.

And that was all. Elena started to feel something wasn't right, but still couldn't imagine what exactly. Finally she ventured:

“Why are you angry?”

Carmen's frown deepened and her carefully manicured hand brushed her own leather leggins.

“Your doctor called an hour ago while you were still working in the recording sessions. He was insistent so since you left your handbag out with me I finally answered the call. Apparently you have him worried but finally decided to authorize you a stronger dosis of your sleeping pills”.

The sound of a claxon behind them hit Elena's ears. She tried to sit more comfortably but to no avail. They moved a pair of metres, then stopped again.

“He also told me very interesting things about his viennese colleague and these shots of cortisone he allowed during the  _ Macbeth _ run.”

Elena’s face reddened. 

“That was personal”

“No, that was stupid, Elena. How many times I have told you about the dangers of using steroids in order to sing over your cold? And now the sleeping pills, I have lost count of the things you are hiding from me lately, first and all...”.

Her voice was raising, like that morning in Rome, but there was something more, a hint of sadness and a bitter touch.

“That was also personal”

“Yet has affected your professional life”, Carmen replied “Maybe you'd sleep better and without any help if you weren't glued to Twitter every single Saturday”.

Finally they were leaving the traffic jam behind. Elena swallowed, not knowing what to do, o rather not daring to say something completely irreparable. But she wasn't the kind of person who backs down.

“God I miss the days when you had that flu, at least you wasn't around constantly and reading behind my shoulder”.

Carmen's lips were reduced to a fine, purple line. The soprano expected another bitter reply, they'd argue for another ten minutes or two and all would be fixed in the end. But nothing of this happened. They arrived at the hotel, with Carmen addressing her a last, sad, courteous  _ Good evening _ . Elena expected she would show up and do something spectacular like yelling at her later, or throw her sleeping pills – which she naturally took that night too – at her face.

Instead, she was much shocked and worried to learn the next morning, thanks to a really nervous Chus, that Carmen had left while the soprano was sleeping and that she didn't answer to his calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And here we are with the final notes:
> 
> 1) This and the anecdote about the pacifist yellow vest visiting the presidential palace are based in real stories.  
> 2) Since there was an allusion to Turina's Cantares last chapter, I decided to make Elena's recital all about that repertoire. Falla's cycle of Seven Spanish songs can be listened here sung by Victoria de los Ángeles: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHMV1GFL3_g. El Vito is a quite known popular song with several versions, here sung by Teresa Berganza: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAKPWxcnDas. It has inspired other pieces, like the song from the Civil War El quinto regimiento https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yo-49-d-7w4 or even this piece by Coltrane: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hN5JpIG0B0  
> 3) Falla's lullaby is part of the aforementioned cycle of Seven Popular Spanish songs. As for Lorca's series of songs, there's a recording with the poet himself playing the piano. Another lullaby from his cycle: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rPScsaW0RYk At certain moments you can even hear Lorca humming along.  
> 4) Literally on the very first day after the election.   
> 5) We are back with KGB stories, but the rumor does exist.  
> 6) Fedora, by Umberto Giordano, is about a Russian princess seeking revenge for the death of her fiancé at the hands of a nihilist. Spoiler alert, she ends falling in love with the murderer - who did it because his wife was having an affair with him - but indirectly kills the man's innocent young brother in the process. She ends taking her own life poisoning herself. For decades there has been a persistent rumor of a recording existing from the performances Callas and Corelli sang together at la Scala. 
> 
> Well, that was all. Hope you enjoyed. My characters not so much I think Until the next one! :)


	30. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which doesn't mean we are at the middle of our story, by the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short one to make things advance, sort of. As usual, be patient with my typos. They are there, no doubt. Final notes are there to clarify references to operas and similar. Enjoy.

**XXX**

_**Intermezzo** _

## 

( ˌɪntəˈmɛtsəʊ  )

a short piece of instrumental music composed for performance

between the acts or scenes of an opera, drama, etc

_From_ : Chus.

_To_ : Carmen.

_Honestly, I shouldn't even answer. To say that Elena is furious, is an understatement. I don't know which kind of conversation or argument you two had, but after telling her you had left, she was first worried about you, since you left suddenly and didn't answer to our calls for a week. If you had seen her calling to every single hospital in London! Then she learnt the truth. She mumbled something about the world full of people who wanted to be her agent or her manager, or both, and composed Mrs. Blackwood's number. Since she had been pursued us for a while, Elena just threw herself in the ample bosom of her agency; now we are one in the long list of her clients, with, example given, Mme. Ardeleanu and Olga, who by the way keeps writing, Heavens know why, that woman is a saint. Mrs. Blackwood's fee includes a new Community Manager, and she follows us around with five devices at the same time. Elena insisted in keeping me with her, so I have ascended, somewhat, to a sort of secretary._

_Mrs. Blackwood came obviously to see us, praised the new recording and told Elena about the possibility of recording or even singing_ Aida _in the future, in a controlled environment of course, and with maybe a reduced ensemble. “With Olga Novikova as Amneris”, she added. Elena's first impulse was to answer the role was too heavy for her and Mrs. Blackwood replied that Freni had sung it with Karajan once. Mrs. Blackwood has looked as our schedule and say we should withdrawn of a thing or two, either because the opera house is not paying us the right fee or that they are not important enough to have Elena in the cast. However, she seems to agree with the idea of the_ Norma _on tour with_ La Monnaie _, and that we should discuss the terms with them. So far she has cancelled the_ Traviata _Elena should have sung in a year and a half in Bilbao and exchanged it for a pair of recitals. They weren't exactly happy about that until she promised to send one of her younger sopranos to sing Violetta. Mrs. Blackwood then left because she had to talk to another of her singers, who was making his debut at the ROH_ (1) _as Attila._ “A true bass, my dear, but not very subtle” _, she said to Elena; it turned out it was our bass from Rome. Even if she's not there she keeps constantly in contact and I am the one who has to be aware of her calls. Right now she's calling again, as we make our luggages for Canada. So I have to leave you, I'll maybe, and only maybe, write you from there._

  
  


_From: Chus_

_To: Carmen_

_Aguirre is again furious at the director, like that time in Barcelona, even if we aren't working with the same guy and the production has been in twenty different opera houses already – indeed I think he inherited it and even if I'm not sure, the one who came out with this one has been dead for a decade - , but for the moment he's angry and we are waiting for the inevitable appeasement. Elena is profiting to study again that part in Act II that gives her some trouble and apart from that she's having problems with that byzantine cross which according to the libretto is supposed to contain poison. We have decided not to wait for the end of Aguirre's antics at the café, but inside the opera house instead. It's quite cold outside, even if I suppose Canadians are accustomed to worse. Mrs. Blackwood approves the lawsuit against the Opéra, by the way, so in that aspect we are at the same point than before your flight._

_You left in London some of your jewellery that I've sent you from there, it didn't made any sense to take it here with us. Elena also wants to know what she should to about the Rossini autograph you gave to her. I told her to write, but she didn't seemed ready to cooperate._

_“I'll write when it's adequate”, she told me._

_“When will you think it would be? It's not that I am fond of writing her either, after what happened”._

_These were my words, exactly. You'll forgive me for being blunt, but, again, why on Earth did you leave that suddenly? Elena no longer trusting you, you said. Elena lying to you about about her... affair. Elena hiding even more things from you, like steroids or sleeping pills. Very well then, I understand, but why leave so suddenly? Without even trying to convince her about not taking these things? As far as steroids is concerned, it seems she isn't going to need them for_ Fedora _. Then, about the thing you asked to me, to search where she's hiding her sleeping pills and get rid of them, I won't do that, you know it's not a good idea right now._

_I've convinced her to stay away from French broadcast stations and social networks on Saturdays. Apparently it's something_ he _has requested also or so I think._ He _keeps writing, too. Mrs. Blackwood, who evidently has read the press, has said that she finds all the situation very quaint, very romantic, and with interesting possibilities from an economic point of view, and that maybe Elena should try to sell some book of memoirs, and that she knows a pair of excellent ghost writers that would do marvels with all that material and made a best-seller now that the thing is over. Elena's insistence in that the_ thing _was not over didn't silence Mrs. Blackwood who then told it didn't matter, the material would be good now, in a year or in ten years if she wanted to use it. Elena was very firm about not wanting to hear the word_ memoirs _again._

_From: Chus_

_To: Carmen_

  
  


_You'll read the reviews today probably._ Fedora _was a success, not only inside but also outside the opera house. They put screens and all, which seemed a bit uncomfortable given the weather but people wasn't discouraged at all. Plus, even if this was not a gala performance we had some celebrities again. It's fortunate all these people only show up during the premiere, and then we have to deal with real opera lovers. They'll probably will be more severe with us than actors and politicians, but at least they come because of the music. hat said, is not like this opera is a masterpiece. Elena at last resolved that little difficulty she had in Act II and Aguirre his own feud with the director. He was very moving during the last scene, when Fedora poisons herself – that cross almost fell from her neck when the chain broke during Act III but Elena resolved it throwing it to the floor as if she was angry – but no one seemed to notice._

_And, as you'll know by his Instagram story, the Prime Minister and his wife were among these_ premiere visitors _. What you won't see in the reviews or the news is that Elena and Mr. Trudeau talked during five minutes in a corner of the restaurant where we dined after. Yes, you have guessed, they dined with us, or rather they dined with the cast. We poor mortals were in another room. Less pretty, I would say; in any case and if you are wondering what kind of conversation Elena and Mr. Trudeau had, she didn't tell me anything about it, so don't bother asking._

_Mrs. Blackwood has joked this morning via Skype about francophone threesomes and similar things, and Elena has been annoyed at her words, and judging by the comment she made once the call was over – and that I won't reproduce here - it seems unlikely poor Mr. Trudeau is invited to any of these events, in case these things took place. I tried to make the situation lighter by saying to her I wouldn't refuse such an occasion if I was in her place and the gentlemen decided to... I'll stop here, I think I have drunk a beer or two more than I should have done. Anyway Mrs. Blackwood's behaviour has been more professional later in the day when she had asked if Elena could step in for Maria Razinkova in ten days in New York for the_ matinée _. Do you remember her from Paris? She was supposed to sing_ Manon (2) _there but poor thing has her leg broken when part of the set of the scene of the Cours-la-Reine_ (3) _collapsed. Elena seems slightly annoyed with her new reputation as a rescuer for desperate opera houses, especially when they are not that desperate. But there will be the broadcast, and Mrs. Blackwood thinks it will be lucrative for all us. For her especially, since she's the manager of several of the other singers in the cast, including the tenor and three of the other sopranos... apart from the singers from other operas who are right now at the Met. Olga, example given. She's singing_ Carmen _there. Already invited us to have lunch together, once we arrive. She's looking forward to see us again, these were her words._

_Elena will keep the Rossini autograph, as you told her to do._

  
  


_From: Chus_

_To: Carmen_

  
  


_Just back from the dress rehearsal of_ Manon _, where nothing fell on us, but the tenor got sick; he's going to soldier up apparently, but it's still dubious. The same can't be said of the conductor, who has trapped some kind of virus. The result is that a new cast notice will be slipped into the program for tomorrow's matinée; they had been already printed and there will no time to make new ones, we still don't know if the tenor will be able to sing. The production is quite boring, all traditional and dusty, but from afar can please the eye I guess. I mean, the perspectives on the painted backdrops are fine. But being too old it's one of the reasons why it keeps falling apart. We had to wait for the scene at the inn to be ready, and, as for the one at the Cours-la-Reine where Maria got hurt it was way worse. I am told they'll have a new one in two years or so; they have a lot of problems when directors dare to challenge the audience's tastes and their hostility to what they call_ Eurotrash (4) _. Mind you, the original director of this_ Manon _was European, too._

_Today we had lunch with Olga, who seems to have lost a lot of weight lately. She told us that she still had some problems with her sleeping habits and is very slowly going back to normal life, the normal life of an opera singer anyway. She spent her nights half studying her scores, half reading Wilkie Collins novels. She's now at her third one in two months: an old, worn out copy of_ The Woman in White _– in Russian – which was on the table the whole time._

_“The problem is certain opera houses have already moved on and, obviously, didn't wait for me. It's like what happens with actresses, more or less”, she said, sighing. “It's almost a miracle la Scala decided to keep me as Amneris”._

_“Did you know Mrs. Blackwood wants to make Aida with us both?”, Elena asked then. I don't know if they have talked about_ the affair _during the few minutes they were alone. I doubt it, personally._

_“I have heard of it, yes”, Olga said. “And you answered...”_

_“Too heavy”._

_Olga's fingers were nervously tapping on the book cover, in which a self portrait of Zinaida Serebriakova_ _– dressed in white, her face illuminated by a candle - could be seen._

_“Try to resist her, she's very, very insistent. One thing is ambition, and other thing is being reckless. As for me, my interest will soon no longer defended by Mrs. Blackwood” and there was something in Olga's voice I had never heard before. Resentment._

_“Could I ask why?”, Elena seemed as surprised as I was._

_“There are certain limits, Elena”, she replied, without telling which limits she was referring to, or in which way Mrs. Blackwood had trespassed them. But I guessed it had to do with her father's illness and death. “The only thing I wish with respect to Mrs. Blackwood is that she never has to heard the things she said to me in certain occasion”._

_The conversation about Mrs. Blackwood – who is due to arrive tomorrow - ended there, and we started to talk about the accident that had caused Maria's cancellation of her_ Manon _. If only we had know that the chain of misfortunes would go on... I mean, it's not the worst thing that has happened here, remember that guy who decided to take his own life by jumping from a balcony during the interval of Verdi's_ Macbeth _or the murder of that poor violinist whose body was found in an airshaft_ (5) _, but we are almost authorized to talk of_ jettatura _at this point._

_On top of that, it's going to be in a Saturday. I hope to keep Elena centered on the stage._

  
  


_From: Chus_

_To: Carmen_

  
  


_By the moment you read this you'll have heard it all. The poor tenor's voice cracking in the middle of St. Sulpice's scene, with a collective, horrified gasp from the audience. Luckily for him singers are rarely booed here and after a moment of silence he managed to finish not only the third act, but also the rest of the opera. Unfortunately for him this is the start of yet another vocal crisis, Mrs. Blackwood told us, and this time seems serious enough to stop singing for at least a year, and that the best would be to forget this matinee and center himself in his recovery. But how he could do? The broadcast is followed by dozens of broadcast stations all over the world, everyone has a recording now and it's becoming viral, with the poor man being widely mocked._

_Elena - centered on the stage, yes - tried to comfort him later after the curtain call, but he rejected her in a very rude way, calling her an hypocrite bitch, and worse things. We later discovered that our new community manager had thought funny to share the video on an Instagram story, with a lot of rooster stickers around the tenor's head. I made her apologize personally to the singer, but he seems skeptical about Elena's lack of involvement in the whole thing. The only consolation for him is that tomorrow other things will happen and the incident will be forgotten, sort of._

_Mrs. Blackwood came during the interval of course, took a critical look at the set before the performance started and looked exasperated at the quantity of dust housed in the gambling house scene and congratulated_ all _her singers. Which the tenor took as ironic – apparently it wasn't -. Then took Elena apart and insisted in the_ Aida _. Then they started discuss about the_ Norma _with La Monnaie again. Negotiations seems advanced, more than they were one month ago. The tour would take place next Summer, this is why some of our previous engagements had been dropped, she has told us. Next month, then we'll be in Brussels signing the contract and busy with a recital. Elena seems happy because apparently there is a summit and_ you-know-who _will show up._

_Carmen, I still have not forgiven you for leaving us with Mrs. Blackwood and all this mess._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The Royal Opera House, Covent Garden.  
> (2) Prévost's Manon Lescaut, actually a part of his Memoirs and Adventures of a Man of Quality has inspired several works for the scene. The opera here is Massenet's one; he wroteanother opera inspired by the same book. Apart from that, there are operas by Auber, Puccini and Henze inspired in the story of Manon and her lover Des Grieux, as well as a ballet by Halévy and another modern ballet by Kenneth Macmillan, based on Massenet's music.  
> (3) This is the scene which requires more people on stage (here you can watch a minimalistic approach: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4E3gX6L7z8), so in some modest opera houses it was cut, and the heroine's gavotte transposed to Act IV. There's even an alternate version by Massenet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=byXL0lJbeCs  
> (4) With this lovely sobriquet are described "modern" productions.  
> (5) On January the 23rd, 1988, a member of the audience, an elderly gentleman who had been voice coach and singer himself, sat on the railing of the balcony and left himself fall to his death. The rest of the performance, which was being broadcasted - it was a Saturday matinee - was cancelled. The "Murder at the Met" took place in July 1980: a violinist disappeared during the interval of the ballet Dom Quixote and her body was found in an ventilation shaft. A stagehand was later convicted to life in prison.  
> And to end with an opera blooper, more funny than the one described in the episode, listen to this Rigoletto quartett where everyone screws things up: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTtVgy7jh7U  
> Well, this is all for today. Hope you enjoyed. As usual, feel free to comment!


	31. Che gelida manina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About politicians gathering in jails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the other chapter were written more or less at the same time, so that's why I am uploading it already. As usual, you'll have to forgive my mispellings. There are barely opera or any other references here.

**XXXI**

**_Che gelida manina_ **

  
  


_Che gelida manina_

_se la lasci riscaldar?_

_Cercar che giova?_

_Al buio non si trova_

(What a frozen little hand

let me warm it for you.

What's the use of looking?

We won't find it in the dark.)

_Che gelida manina_ . PUCCINI, _La Bohème_ , Act I

  
  


**March**

  
  


There's always a table for the German chancellor at the Hotel Amigo. A table she occupies in the evenings after the summits, either with her team or with her fellow leaders. A table in a corner, where they can talk discreetly, often after the working dinner in the great meeting room at the Europa Building. It's kind of ironical that the usual dwelling of leaders during summits is a former prison, with a name meaning Friend in the language of the former rules of this land. There are different versions about how the Spanish word Amigo stuck to the place, and Angela knows at least two. In this evening, the first evening of the Spring – it had been a sunny day in Brussels, which is unusual – is not her team but her fellow leaders who gather around her. Charles Michel. Bettel, who has come to the summit with a velvety jacket worthy of a show jumping, has been the first to joke about leaving his horse outside the meeting room, so nobody else had to make the comment. Here's Rutte too, and the Italian Conte, who has chosen a different hotel his time, so after having a drink he would leave; the cameras have caught him and Theresa sitting alone by themselves, a telling image of their new isolation. It seems Spain is the third wheel of the Union, or will be in the future, in case Spaniards have some day a stable government. There's Costa, the Portuguese prime minister. And, of course, Emmanuel, who in this moment drinks the cold beer he ordered, unceremoniously and directly from the bottle. A bit of white foam is left on his upper lip, which he licks, thus saving his white shirt, as crisp and white like it was in the morning.

“Actually, it seems like I see Donald more than I see my wife these days” as in Donald Tusk. Everyone thinks that comment witty, judging by the laughs. Angela smiles, politely.

The Chancellor looks at her own beer jar, remembering the concern she has felt when he greeted him in the morning. Everyone has seen the images of the stores and restaurants, and even press kiosks of the Champs-Élysées smashed, and these families who had to be rescued because they happened to live just next to the bank branch that was set on fire. There was a lot of confusion, a police chief forced to resign as, she's told, a heated scene between the president – forced to cut short his own weekend at the snow - and his Interior minister. Who kept his job, nevertheless. This last scene, she has a hard work imagining it. Its seems unlikely coming from the young, smiling, very calm young man in front of her. But who knows, who really knows.

They make an unlikely pair, the franco-german soul of the European Union. She wants stability, he wants change; she would like to preserve the status quo, he to reform everything; she struggles to keep things subdued, he's a whirlwind of ideas; she prudent, he too daring; however, by all their differences, that the Anglophone press tends to exaggerate, there was a real concern in her this morning when the young man had greeted her. She had felt his cheek barely brushing her own, the smell of his eau-de-cologne, his hands on her shoulders, and whatever hint of the things he could have experienced last weekend when the stores, restaurants and even that bank branch with people living in the superior flats were smashed or set on fire, was hidden in the depths of his blue eyes. As for the trademark, boyish grin that broke up as the flashed started to sound, she is not sure if, like in that famous opening line, he is born with a gift for laughter and a sense that the World is mad or if that smile of his is just a weapon against those who have been wanting to bring him down for a while. He keeps smiling right now.

As she sees it, there's a certain irony in she being still here, and French presidents coming and going. French institutions are stable under the Fifth Republic, even in times of unrest. Unlike Spain with its government doomed from the first moment to be short lived, unlike Italy and its eternal changes, unlike the coalitions built in her own country – which on one would qualify as unstable, though – Emmanuel doesn't need a coalition, French presidents and their governments need them rarely, unless in times of what they call – why on Earth does that sound like there was some kind of sexual innuendo – cohabitation, when the president has to accept a majority and a Prime Minister coming from another party. It looks unlikely right now, when parliamentary elections are held just at the beginning of the president's term. But, at the same time, to use his own expression, no inhabitant of the 55, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, has been reelected since said term was reduced from seven to fifth years. The curse of the quinquennat, the French call it. Whether Emmanuel – the youngest and arguably the boldest, or the more exasperating of all them, depending of whose opinion is requested – wins the elections or not in 2022, this is the end of her career anyway and it's unlikely she will be there to receive the next one.

“So finally Pedro published that book he was planning, I think”, Charles Michel says. There were copies at his delegation. “ _Manual de Resistencia_ ”.

“Ah, yes, we were talking about that last Summer in Salzburg”; Costa is finding something interesting in the napkin apparently, he doesn't stop looking at the thing. “With Emmanuel.”

“I don't remember exactly”, the French president says, politely. He actually does remember very well, as with everything that happened in Salzburg, but doesn't find the conversation interesting enough. Anyway, he hasn't read the book, neither plans to. He's supposed to receive Pedro at some point this Spring, when they'll talk about the future European Commision. When this matter surfaces, all this merry group around the table turns into backstabbing; as usual in diplomacy. “Didn't that contain a joke about mattresses?”

“And the line _People think I am frivolous because I am handsome_ ”

“ _Really_?”

“Really...”

“But did he write that... You know, with all these rumors...” Rutte intervenes. The rumors about plagiarism that pursue Sánchez from the moment he was elected.

“It seems not”; Costa seems to be enjoying the moment, maybe it's an Iberian thing about bad mouthing the neighbours, go figure “someone _did_ ghost write that” and shrugging, he adds “It's no secret, by the way”.

“Incredible...”, Bettel says.

It seems to be a tacit consensus about the low quality of such ghostwriting.

“And what about you, Emmanuel? What's your opinion?” Angela says, suddenly.

“On ghostwriting?” that smile of his erupts again, with the sting of insolence hidden behind its radiancy. But he knows perfectly she's not asking about that.

“On the extension”.

There's a sudden silence in the group. The UK, supposed to leave the European Union next month, is trapped in a sort of perpetual groundhog day and definitely not ready. As Emmanuel – too well behaved maybe to openly say _I told you_ – said last year, the deadline is here, May is being constantly defied by the Parliament and general elections are more than probable. The extension seems inevitable, and that's why they will reunite again next month. And then you have that persistent rumour about him. Before he opens his mouth is Costa who completes the thought. 

“You know, that idea about you _pulling a De Gaulle_ ”.

_Pulling a De Gaulle_. The first president of the Fifth Republic had been adamant about not admitting the United Kingdom in which would later become the European Union. British commentators and others, seem to be convinced that the current French president is a maleficent entity who would veto the extension just to avenge Azincourt, Waterloo or something like that, by menacing to expel them from a place they don't want to be. It's not logic, but with certain people you can't expect logical thinking. Anyway, if she knows something about Emmanuel is that sentimentality of such kind is out of question with him. Or with any other rational human being who leads a country.

“The answer is no”, he says, feigning innocence. “But you all know what I think about a long extension”. And he tooks the bottle again, but doesn't drink.

Meaning that the next summit would be difficult, if the Parliament doesn't cooperate with May. And everyone knows they won't.

“So” he concludes “No, I'm not vetoing. That's not what the General would do but...”

He doesn't finish his sentence and apparently thinking there's no need to do so, he drinks now.

“And, how you are managing without a Government, by the way?”

The question is addressed to the Belgian Prime Minister, who shrugs.

“We'll see what elections bring. In any case, people seems satisfied with having no government at all”.

“Don't tell that to Sebastian, he must have prefered that to have _these guys_ with him”.

One of Emmanuel's counselors shows up in the door and makes a gesture to his president. He mumbles something, gets up and talks briefly to the man, then return to the table.

“Is there any problem?”, Bettel asks.

“No, nothing at all”. And if there was one, Angela is under the impression he wouldn't talk about it. There's a peculiar smile as he says this, someone that escapes to her. He surprises her gaze and his smile wides, but his eyes are still not revealing any of his secrets. “Now, about Pedro's book...”

  
  


***

He enters the room with a sigh, after another hour of gossip and what someone when he worked as a sherpa used to call drunk diplomacy. Not that they are drunk right now. Conte has gone back to his hotel and the rest of them are supposed to meet again tomorrow in the morning to talk about climate change, immigration and the rest of things that are not Brexit. But first, he takes a look at his surroundings, another of these suites with several pieces. Just like in Salzburg, which makes him smile. What a coincidence. He enters the bedroom, leaves his tie in one of the armchairs and sits on the bed, taking off his shoes. He lies for a second or two looking at the ceiling, before saying, amused:

“You can come out from your hiding”

A muffled voice under the bed – it's again just like one of these comedies – answers to him.

“Who told you...” there's a noise of someone changing position down there.

“Alphonse told the counselor and the counselor told me. But obviously I couldn't leave in that moment... “ he said...”Did someone else see you?”

“No. But the majordomo entered and said me _Bonsoir, Madame_ and then left”.

“While you were under the bed?” Emmanuel answered, amused.

“Yes, I guess he heard me breathing. I've never been good at hide-and-seek”.

“But you are supposed to be good at controlling your breath”.

Elena's head appears at the other side of the bed, and then the rest of her body. She brushes her jeans and sweater and gets up, only to sit on the bed a second later. Still lying on the other side, Emmanuel takes her hand. It's terribly cold, so his first reaction is try to warm it with own and then his breath. She's there, she's there and it's certainly difficult to believe.

“Alphonse brought me here. He has his ways, and...”, the soprano adds. Her hair is escaping from what hours before was a ponytail. He opens his arms and she throws herself into them, her face tucked in his neck. Her nose is also cold, Emmanuel thinks, as one of her legs entangles with his.

“Let me guess, the blanket again”. And crossing a city with becomes impossible in every single summit, and sneaking her in the room.

“Yes”, she giggles.

“And, how much time you had to wait?”, he asks, teasingly. His hands venture under the sweater. If her fingers are frozen and her nose too, the rest of her body is warm and inviting. Enough to make him forget the last traces of fatigue. “You smell like the car. It's...” he search for the words, something amusing, but he only can whisper: “It's like I was about to have sex with a Citroën”.

One of her frozen hands searches under the white shirt, undoes buttons, caress the skin underneath. Not that his are inactive.

“That's not very romantic”, she finally says, in a very low tone.

“ But, do you want to be romantic? _Now_?” he pulls her jeans down.

“No”, she confesses.

“Then we agree, no?”

“Yes”, she says. And his lips hungrily crash against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is all for today. Hope you enjoyed the last two chapters, and as usual feel free to comment and criticise, you know. Until the next one. :)


	32. Mild und leise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we discover Wagner could write bad music, too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, surprise, there's yet another chapter this week. Guess I was inspired. As usual, you'll have to forgive me for the mispellings and grammar errors. Also, as I usually do, you'll may forgive me for all this fictional delirium.  
> By the way do yourself a favor and listen to this performance of the work which gives its name to this chapter:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FVprS--bLks  
> More references on the end notes. Enjoy.

**XXXII**

**_Mild und leise_ **

  
  


_Mild und leise_

_wie er lächelt_

_wie das Auge_

_hold er öffnet..._

(Mildly and gently

how he smiles

how his eyes

he opens sweetly)

  
  


_Mild und leise_ (Liebestod) WAGNER _Tristan und Isolde_.

  
  


She who in the last times falls in bed like in a prelude of death, is awake as dawn approach, just watching over his sleep. Maybe her eyes have closed for an hour or two. Maybe is less. Elena is far from being sure. But anyway she doesn't feel that tired, and, lying on the bed, at his side, she just watches. She doesn't dare to move, when it's him and not her the one who has surrendered to fatigue; for her, is probably the lack of her pills what keeps her awake. Or maybe not. She can sleep later, when she is back to her own hotel. For the moment she watches him, even in the middle of that dim light. Her eyes are accustomed now; she can even see the shadow of his lashes on his cheeks and a hint of his teeth between his parted lips.

She has never seen him that way, not even that morning in Salzburg. So that's how he is, when he is free from the weight of power, free of everything that troubles him during his daily life. And that's why she doesn't dare to move, even if the temptation of reaching for his face, following the shape of his mouth or the line of his jaw with her fingers is too strong; the temptation of being the first thing his eyes will see in this day, as she was the last thing he saw last night. Maybe she will fail to resist, in a few moments. Or maybe she will not, and will leave him to enjoy whatever is left of a well deserved rest. Time is short, time is always so desperately short for them that she would want to absorb every single moment available, every single second they have together. If one sums the hours they have had, what's left? A day? A weekend? She sighs, wondering if this can be called a relationship at all.

Francesca's words come back to her, now and then. _Enjoy while it lasts, but he won't divorce and make a first lady of you. You won't marry and have many children, it doesn't work that way_.

Ah, children. The question of children has never entered in her plan. Her mother was one of these women who would want a whole bunch of grandchildren around her, and that periodically expressed a certain disappointment at not having them. Her mother excuse for pressing them was “I don't want you two to end alone”. She had three grandchildren, and that was enough, at last for Rafael and Marta. As for Isabel and herself, they never had a thought for these things; Isabel had enough company with _Nelly II_ , she had an entire career to take care of. Her mother was born as only child in a time where high birth rates were encouraged, and had looked at other families with a lot of siblings with certain envy. There was also that movie she used to watch in Christmas, even if she hated the time of the year itself. It was about a couple with fifteen children, all living in a little flat with the grandfather included, all of them absurdly happy in spite of their struggle to survive – they even watched the neighbour's TV because they couldn't afford one -, like in most films from the era of the dictatorship. At some point the plot involved one of the kids being lost at Christmas, and the thing had a happy ending and two – Elena believed – sequels (1). In her country it was a classic. For her, it was like watching the lives of people from another planet; her mother was born in that world, a world where women should focus in marriage and ask permission to their husbands if they wanted to open a bank account. Elena and her siblings were born in democracy and a society that wanted to free itself of forty years of repression, and these things weren't really important for them. Even so, Rafa and Marta had fulfilled the expectations of giving their mother three grandchildren. Isabel and herself were the disappointing ones.

“... _He won't divorce and make a first lady of you. You won't marry and have many children, it doesn't work that way_.”

For only a moment, as she watches the man asleep at her side, she indulges in that fantasy, which is quite new for her. His divorce; the mediatic storm, the polls going down, the mockery, her career being stopped – oh, she would have to stop singing, of course -, the period of time in which they would to keep hidden. The shrugs behind closed doors, French presidents, you know, they would say, as if that explained everything. Brigitte being pragmatic, or furious, or elegantly leaving him free. Her fantasy didn't know what to do with the president's wife but being a fantasy after all, she didn't have to make it verosimile. They'll have more time for themselves, though. And little by little there would arrive the covers in _Paris Match_ or any other magazine, hand in hand, maybe at the gardens, maybe at the beach, maybe in one of the European capitals he's visiting. The marriage, eventually. She following his steps, abroad or in France, her outfits always analyzed to exhaustion. She watching him at the tribune during Bastille Day, she singing along the national anthem. She never singing in an opera house again. Elena's fantasy includes, at this point, a second term, together with blond-haired children with unruly curls playing at the gardens of the presidential palace or at the Summer residence of Bregançon.

_“… It doesn't work that way.”_

Emmanuel mumbles something in his sleep. What is he dreaming about? She becomes even more quiet, it that was possible. No, it didn't work that way, as Francesca had said. Her fantasy, which is so unlike her very self. She, to dump her career? Not singing anymore? Is not possible, even if one gets all the blond-haired children in the world playing with an already aging _Nemo_ – he would be by then, and... is there any possibility of having a presidential cat too in France? After all there were presidential hens and a pair of goats, she had seen them, why no add the cats - behind the gates of l'Élysée. And then, she doubt he ever has thought about that thing of children, he had chosen not having them a long while ago. So they agree on that matter, like they agreed on not being romantic last night. At least at the beginning, when the whole thing was almost messy, which seemed kind of natural given that it was their first time together in months.

The room is still dim, but there was more light now than an hour ago. Soon they will come, a knock in the door, a call, and he would be taken away from her again, Heaven knew for how many months.

Finally her hand moves, very slowly. Her fingertips caress his chin softly, extremely softly; there's a hint of a stubble there, he would have to shave before starting the second day of the summit. From there her finger wanders to his cheek, which is less shallow than the last time they had been together, in that apartment with the tropical landscape. There are no opera houses in paradise, she had said back then. Before she can ever dwell in that memory he stirs, traps her fingers with her hand and kisses them.

“Good morning”, he whispers. “So finally they are warm.”

She nods, as he brings her closer to him, his arm surrounding her waist again.

“How is that you are already awake?”

“I just did”, she replies.

“Liar.” he brushes a wisp of hair out of her shoulder, caressing her skin with his thumb.

“Hours, then, if you want”, she says, closing her eyes for a moment “I only wanted to see you asleep”.

“Honestly, I don't know if that sounds charming or scary”; there's a touch of levity in his reply, but he has a point... better not tell him the rest “Weren't you tired?” he adds, teasing her.

“Not that tired. And I couldn't sleep anyway”.

“Are you still having these nightmares?” he asked, mournfully. His fingers are still drawing arabesques in her skin. Her shoulder, and her arm, and then her shoulder again.

“No”, she says. Why tell him that the problem was she needed some... help to sleep now. “Are we going to share the shower, like in Salzburg?” she asks, playfully, to avoid the question of her recently acquired habits, in case he senses she's hiding something. She gets a low chuckle in reply, something that seems to come from the depth. Now he traps another lock of her chesnut hair, curling it around his fingers. He seems pensive right now, like if sharing or not the shower was a question of life or death. Or maybe he's going to make that comment about her hair still smelling of the car again – she hopes it does not. Instead, he whispers:

“I'll wave it in the evening breezes like a handkerchief”

Elena is puzzled by this, but she finds the words charming. She looks at his eyes, and replies:

“Now, that's very beautiful, Monsieur, congratulations, but I wanted to know... What about the shower”.

He smiles, as if there was some kind of private joke she doesn't understand.

“What a disappointment, Madame. Remind me to give you something later” the lock of hair definitely escapes his fingers and falls in the pillow; she wonders what thing that could be or what is the source of his disappointment “As for the shower... My wish”, he says with a sigh immediately after, and sits on the bed, looking at the screen of his phone, left on the nightstand “But unfortunately we can't this time. Half past seven. I must hurry”.

She looks at him while he gets up and heads to the bathroom, not a single piece of cloth on his body. Elena props on her elbow and throws a pillow at him; it lands at his feet. He stops and looks back at her, amused.

“It doesn't matter if it's hurried”, she says while he picks the pillow and throws it back at her. His aim could be better, it ends on the other side of the bed, on the floor.

“Come here”, he says, laughing.

She is glad to comply.

***

They are far enough from the hotel when Alphonse gives her permission to sit instead of laying hidden under the blanket. As they did the other time, he's driving a rather banal car, one that doesn't belong to the presidency or to the diplomatic body, and he will leave her in the underground parking of her own hotel, so she doesn't have to step into the streets of Brussels. She sits, trying to fix her hair with a clip she has taken from her handbag. This time she didn't bring her briefcase with her, it has been left at her hotel.

“Next time we can't use this trick again”, Alphonse says; his green eyes meet hers in the rearview mirror. He sounds disapproving, maybe he didn't like that Emmanuel phoned her in the first day of the year, or that that wasn't the first time they ignored his recommendations. “That lady in the hotel, she almost caught us”.

“Then how...”

Emmanuel would answer _We'll find a way_ , but Alphonse seems to be less optimistic, maybe his imagination is less rich than the president's or he prefers not to talk if he has not a clue.

“Things would be easier if Madame lived in Paris, to be honest” as usual Alphonse is talking about her like she wasn't there. Before Elena can reply, he adds. “It's not a reproach, neither an invitation to sell Madame's house and, I don't know, rent a room in Paris. I said room, yes. Paris is an expensive city”.

“Things would be easier if Madame had made another career choice, you mean”.

“Maybe”, the bodyguard sighs “you are right. After all, one could not organize things because Madame wouldn't be there anyway. One securizes the place, or makes a mock police control, or... Well, remember Garnier, Madame”

Her entire life, she would remember Garnier, even in the slightest details. The car, unlike last evening, is warm and it is now when she feels a bit dozy. The blanket , that its now clumsily folded at her side, almost seem tempting.

“... and at times one thinks about it, Madame. To have a rest and watching the children play under the sun”.

She is startled at his words, which match her very conventional fantasy, but she has missed half of his sentence.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Madame wasn't listening, I see...” Alphonse says, with his customary indulgence “I was talking about my grandchildren. Oh, I have two. Amélie and Michel. My life is not reduced to this”

“But you are...” the soprano is certainly ashamed, she has never thought about that, that Alphonse has a life of his own too.

“Too young to have grandchildren? I married very young, Madame. And besides... Go and tell that to the President, Madame. Yes, they are his step grandchildren, but go and tell they are not something _his_ ” now she's taken aback, because she hadn't thought of this. Children, whether their hair is unruly or not, are already playing at the gardens of the presidential palace, only that they are not hers and other woman watches over them. Why does she feel a pang because of this situation? It doesn't make any sense. But Alphonse hasn't stopped talking yet “And on the other hand, Madame knows I am not young anymore. As I said you once, I'm getting old for all this. Too old for presidents. Probably _he's_ going to be my last”.

“And then...”

“Then others will come, and will do the same that I do. The same goes for him. But our lives won't be over once l'Élysée will be left behind.”

***

  
  


“And then she told me: First they wonder, _who the Hell that Novikova is_ ? The second stage _is since what's her face is not available, bring me that Novikova, who is younger_ . In the third phase artistic directors say _Bring me Novikova at all costs!_ Fourth is _since Novikova is not available, bring me what's her face, who is younger_ . And then you arrive at the moment where people wonders _Who the Hell that Novikova is_? And your career is over. She told me that she's entering now phase four”.

Speechless, Elena looks at the remains of her (second) breakfast of the day, and her (third) coffee. Someone at the café has had the brilliant idea of playing Wagner in the background. Not the _good_ Wagner – the asshole wrote sublime music, Elena always reminded to herself – but the rarer, not necessarily even decent one. Concretely the piece he had written for the centenary of the independence of the United States of America (2). A bombastic, neverending thing rarely played. Then she looks at Chus, sitting in front of her in the cafeteria in the ground floor of her hotel. Waiters come and go between the tables covered with cream-colored clothes. Olga has definitely clashed with Mrs. Blackwood and left the agency. She has maintained part of her schedule, including the Amneris from la Scala, but she keeps cancelling performances. They both had read that thing about the five phases of a singer's career long time ago, and found it witty. Now it seems Olga takes it seriously – and bitterly – and that alarms Elena, who always has seen her friend as a soul devoid of all bitterness and pessimism.

“You should call her, just saying”, Chus said “She seemed downhearted.”

“I'll do that later”, Elena replies, as in _probably tomorrow_. When she's figured out what to tell to cheer Olga up.

“And speaking of Mrs. Blackwood, she wants your opinion about the cover for _Seguidilla_. She sent them to you”

_Seguidilla_ is the definitive title of her album of Spanish songs, taken from one of Falla's cycle. After much discussion, the label has decided to name it like that; less advised fans maybe will buy it expecting to find something from _Carmen_. Elena has no saying on the title, and very little in the cover itself – even if she can try to veto it – however, she's asked by the sake of mere courtesy. Without real interest, Elena downloads the images and gives them a look. The first one shows her with that horse from the video, its head resting on her shoulder. The animal had been well behaved; she not that much. Both individuals in the image, she and her four-legged companion, are photoshopped to death, so she looks like a barbie doll and the animal like something out of a My Little Pony rip-off. The second one shows only her head, looking left, several curls on her forehead like she was a modern version of Estrellita Castro (3), the famous actress and copla singer of the 30s and 40s. This one is also photoshopped.

“So which one do you prefer, _Elena in Ponyland_ or the look _à la Cifesa_ (4) ?” Chus asks as the last bars of Wagner's _Centennial March_ die. It seems whoever is making the musical selection has a soft spot for horrible works by genius composers because the piece that comes immediately after is Beethoven's celebratory piece of Wellington's victory in the battle of Vitoria (5). The Duke himself said after attending a performance that, had the battle resembled that, he would have run in the opposite direction.

“Can I say none?” the soprano answers as two or three heads in the café raise at the rhythm of the piece's musical quote of _Rule, Britannia_. Wait until they heard the music imitating the earth breaking under cannon shots, she thinks, annoyed.

“You can, but the label went for the Ponyland approach” he shrugs “We can't do anything about that. Maybe Carmen could have...”

Elena cuts him short.

“I don't want to hear that again. She left, the worse for her. You are doing a good job, Chus. Listen, I miss her, too, but we must manage without her”. Actually, she would welcome Carmen the next day if she went back, but admitting it was another thing, a very different one indeed. “And talking about managing things, where is Anne?”

Anne, the new community manager, is in her own room, with her five different devices, trying to upload the photos from the recital two days ago. She seems afraid of daylight and of real people. If that's a reason for occasionally going rogue and using Elena's accounts in several social networks in a weird way, it's difficult to say. The soprano had decided to give her another opportunity after the rooster sticker incident with that poor tenor. She wonders if that was a good decision.

“Excuse me, Madame” the new voice appears just at her left, and she looks up, startled. A waiter is just before her, holding something which seems like a little red package in his hand. He seems annoyed at being used as an improvised postman, just as annoyed as startled the soprano is. “Someone left this for you at the reception. They insisted it should be brought immediately to you”.

“Ah, yes. Thank you” she is uncertain if she should take the thing or not. Finally she does and the man leaves, with a frown. Maybe she should have given him something. She's not sure. She looks at the package, not very weighty, hastily wrapped in red.

“Judging by the size, it must be a book. Or a chocolate box” Chus says. “Maybe poisoned, from a rival”, he jokes.

“Very funny”, Elena says at she tears the gift wrap. She is confronted with a copy of Baudelaire's _Les Fleurs du Mal,_ in French of course. It is an used one; there is a thing about used books, books that have lived. They have followed their owners, maybe; they have a coffee stain there, or their yellowed pages have folded corners, or some pages have notes half deleted by time. The books she inherited from her grandfather, they were these kind of books that had lived. This one is, too, but there is something very modern in the cover, a yellow post it with a few words in a handwriting she recognizes.

“Is that from... “ Chus never completes the phrase.

Elena does not listen him, not longer anyway. She has even ceased to listen to Beethoven's extravaganza about Vitoria. Her fingertips are following the traits of his pen, like early in the morning they had followed the traits of his face. “Read more poetry. And take care of this book for me”. One of the pages is marked. She slowly introduces her finger between the pages which smell of old paper and of his eau-de-cologne and opening the book – there's an almost imperceptible sound of the spine - reads:

  
  


_Ô toison, moutonnant jusque sur l’encolure !_

_Ô boucles ! Ô parfum chargé de nonchaloir !_

_Extase ! Pour peupler ce soir l’alcôve obscure_

_Des souvenirs dormant dans cette chevelure,_

_Je la veux agiter dans l’air comme un mouchoir !_ (6) _  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The movie Elena is thinking about is La Gran Familia (literally The Big Family), from 1962.  
> (2) The Großer Festmarsch, WWV 110 a.k.a. Centennial March or American Centennial March is a work rarely performed, originally a commision from Theodore Thomas. The composer himself had said that "The best thing about the march is the money I got for it". You can judge for yourself here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7a42dWhEis  
> (3) Estrellita Castro Navarrete (1903-1983)  
> (4) Cifesa (Compañía Industrial de Film Español, Sociedad Anónima) a film studio which operated from 1932 to 1961.  
> (5) Like in Wagner's case, this is not the better work of its composer. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R_ibES7i-HU  
> (6) Evidently the character was quoting Baudelaire, but our dear soprano prefers novels to poetry. French poetry anyway.
> 
> ...And this is all. Hope you enjoyed. Until the next one.


	33. Oh qual funesto avvenimento!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a hard day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to a new chapter of this fic adventure which I am definitely enjoying. I may write others! Well, and that said, the usual reminders about English not being my first language and the story being, obviously, fictional but with certain "real" details added now and then. More references at the end notes. And... enjoy.

**XXXIII**

  
  


**_Oh qual funesto avvenimento!_ **

  
  


_ Oh! qual funesto avvenimento!... _

_ Tutti ne ingombra cupo spavento! _

_ Notte, ricopri la ria sventura _

_ Col tenebroso tuo denso vel. _

(Oh what a tragedy!

A numb terror paralyses us all!

O night, shroud the cruel mishap

with your dense, sombre veil)

DONIZETTI _ , Lucia di Lammermoor,  _ Act II

  
  
  


**April**

Elena was having a bad day. Sitting on the edge of her chair, she tried to pay attention to her lawyer – the one who looked like a young Margaret Thatcher- but her mind was in another place. Right now, concretely, that place was the Charles de Gaulle airport, where part of her luggage had been lost. She was still furious, and struggled to hide her impatience under a calm face. Tomorrow she would be back in Sicily, where she was singing Donizetti's  _ Lucia di Lammermoor.  _ That her Parisian lawyer had decided it was absolutely indispensable to have a discussion about the lawsuit against the Opéra in her office came as a surprise; it was so rushed that she had literally no time to look for an hotel. Fortunately or not, Mrs. Blackwood happened to own an apartment in the 16 th district of the city, a place of a ridiculous size but with beautiful views. The alternative was to spend the night at the airport. Maybe her pride could have caused a refusal, but her pragmatic side won over her; she suspected that Chus and Anne, who had followed her to Paris, were relieved to have a sofa instead of the floor. It had been necessary to ignore Mrs. Blackwood's not-that-funny comments.

“You could invite your boyfriend over”, she had said “You know, it would be interesting... Maybe I should hide cameras here and there and then sell the video to Putin. I bet that won't be the most disgusting sex tape he had in his library, eh? Quite the contrary, eh?”

Elena had needed all what remained of her patience at that point – very little, to be honest – to not insult her. It was not possible to hit the woman, she was again busy elsewhere and talking with the soprano via Skype. The worse thing was that, as much as she would want to have his company tonight – with or without cameras, she preferred without obviously – she knew it was impossible. They were in the same city, at the same time, but they wouldn't share even an hour. It was torture for her and she felt already sad when she had landed in Paris. He was due to pronounce a speech that evening, something about the conclusions of that Great Debate thing he had been doing. Broadcast stations were spending their time discussing a speech that still didn't take place, and all the newspapers at the airport shared that fever in their covers. That apparently baggage handlers lost one of her suitcases didn't help to improve her mood. She had lost her cool blood and argued angrily with the staff of the airport. They maybe had been more kind that she deserved, she thought later, when the taxi was driving them to Mrs. Blackwood's apartment. It was too late to regret it now, but what it someone had filmed her screaming at that poor man that tried to tell her, very calmly, how to look for her lost suitcase. Maybe, on top on that, someone had filmed her, and that would be interesting, even if the video didn't contain the kind of scenes imagined by Mrs. Blackwood's fertile mind. She had no time to check Twitter or Facebook and see for herself if the usual suspects had uploaded a video with the “ _ president's singer _ ” being an arrogant bitch.

And there was even more. Her pills, her blessed sleeping pills, were hidden there, in the lost suitcase. Maybe it was her fault for not having them in the cabin luggage – where her black briefcase had always a place – but already when Carmen was around, Elena had become a little paranoiac and hide them from indiscreet looks or unwelcome intrusions. She constantly changed the place where she kept them. There was nothing of real value in that suitcase, other than the boots she liked from an aesthetic point of view and that at the same time provoked such pain in her feet. But she disliked its loss, and all the time wasted in looking for it. She had left the airport with barely the time of leaving their luggage at the apartment and having a little rest. Later, Anne was sent to the pharmacy, from where she came back empty handed. There was no way they gave them these pills without prescription, they had told her. And the last Elena knew of her doctor was that he would be unreachable until Holy Week was over. He was, no doubt, at one of these fancy ski resorts he used to visit in this time of the year.

So, without the possibility of a decent sleep that night, irritated and saddened, she had finally reached her lawyer's office. It was a fine April afternoon, and the sun invaded the room. There was even a warm ray of sunlight touching her shoulder, as she sat on the edge of the chair. It came from that famous panoramic window which opened to an espectacular view of the river Seine and of Notre-Dame. The desk was crumbling under a myriad of dossiers, in a chaotic order that probably only the young Thatcher look-alike woman understood. She was currently looking at the screen of her computer, talking to the soprano and using her pencil to draw doodles in a little yellow notebook she had at her side. What from Elena's point of view looked like a horse, and then a floral ornament, and then a chicken. All this while moving her foot back and forth, once almost hitting Elena. She had apologized, of course.

“Madame Mendieta, I think we have a possibility here. Naturally they will try to settle things before, but we won't allow them. It is a shame that women are still fired because of this, which concerns your private life” the lawyer looked at her from top to bottom, judging the human being she had before her “No matter what kind of relationship you really have with Macron” she pressed her lips after these words. A siren – firefighters, probably – could be heard from afar.

_ Macron _ . Not the President, not even Monsieur. Well, it wasn't that different of how the press talked about him, or any other foreign politician in her own country. But from a French citizen, and from this one in particular, it sounded kind of... irrespectful? Maybe this was another point, apart from her pills, in which she was becoming too susceptible? On the other hand, she hadn't figured yet to what political spectrum her lawyer belonged, but it was clear that she wasn't fond of Emmanuel. To put it mildly.

“A mere friendship, it is widely known”. Elena's father had told her once:  _ Never lie to your doctor, your lawyer and your banker _ . But of these three individuals, only one was currently hearing the absolute truth from her, and that was probably because she was the one who kept her money.

“If you say so” the other woman replied “Again, I am not here to judge your, or his private life. In fact I would be happier if  _ he _ had  _ only _ a private life instead of having ever heard of him. He would be happier too, maybe. I am not paid for that. Whatever you do in your bed, Madame, it shouldn't affect your professional career”.

What did  _ she _ know about him? There was something sure about Emmanuel. He had said it, no matter how much he would wish, now and then, escape to the protocol, to the constraints of his position. He didn't like  _ normal _ life. But she wasn't going to argue about him with the lawyer.

“Of course”, Elena said instead, and tried to sit more comfortably, as her mind went astray. She was distracted. First, as the lawyer spoke to her, the soprano started looking at the bookshelf just in front of her, at the other woman's back. Books about legislation. A few ones about Art History, some of these the kind of coffee table volume no one really reads, some of these manuals about architecture which seemed to have been re-read, judging by the spine. Then, her tour of the lawyer's library ended, Elena looked at her own entwined fingers. She didn't dare to touch the desk, fearing the avalanche of papers that would probably ensue, so she had them in her lap, very quietly. A new source of irritation emerged then; even now, after washing them a thousand times and two or three showers, there was a hint of red, a reminder of the fake blood that had covered them last night during the performance of  _ Lucia _ .

The director had changed the setting of the opera, initially taking place in Scotland during the second half of the 17 th Century, to another one in space. Donizetti's masterpiece looked like a mix of Star Wars and Saint Seiya. It was more the former than the latter. The director had even introduced a scrolling text during the overture, which resumed the rivalry between the Ashtons and the Ravenswood and why poor Lucia was mad as a hatter. But the libretto was naturally unchanged, no matter if the gentlemen were using lightsabers instead of swords. And the mad scene (1) after murdering her husband of a handful of hours, uncut and with the haunting glass harmonica, was still there. Whether the setting was modern or not, Lucia still made her entrance dressed in white, her face showing deep sorrow. Her great moment, the moment that unfortunately also implied to go in scene with that disgusting thing splattered on Lucia's nightgown.

“But, aren't lightsabers supposed to have a cauterizing effect?”, she had asked, very seriously, as a stagehand was painting her hands with a brush. Not being an expert, she had turned to Chus and Anne, who, she believed, had more knowledge about Star Wars related things than she had. Is not that she hadn't seen the movies, but they were far from being an essential part of her childhood. For some obscure reason she and her siblings had been fond of watching  _ Orca the killer whale _ instead (2).

“Elena, it's just opera, not the EU, calm down. The paint will go easily with water”

“The European Union? What has the European Union to do with this?” the soprano asked, puzzled.

“It means Expanded Universe, Madame”, the stage hand snorted as he left the brush aside and gave the soprano what would look like an extinguished lightsaber from afar. She expected a short dissertation on said weapons but it was time to go on scene and she never got her explanation. Maybe they were right, she thought as she make her entrance with her long, floating white gown stained with red and her sticky hands grabbing the artifact. The eerie sound of the glass harmonica (3) – that instrument that purportedly caused madness or lead poisoning, even if there was no scientific evidence of its evils – followed Lucia in her definitive descent into insanity. As the chorus hushed  _ Oh giusto cielo! Par dalla tomba uscita! _ Elena's hand opened and the lightsaber fell in the floor as she raved about her true love, with whom she will never meet again _.  _ The haunting sound was gone when the mad scene ended. The disgusting fluid not so much.

“... Oh good Lord”

There was such tone of incredulity in the lawyer's voice than Elena was instantly brought back to reality. Whatever she had found, it had to be terrible for her case. She raised her eyes and saw that, for once, the woman was still, still as a statue, her eyes opened, looking at her, and the hand that held her pencil had stopped in its restlessness.

“Oh good Lord” she repeated, her lips quivering.

No, she wasn't looking at her, but at something that was beyond her, something at her back. Instinctively, Elena turned her head to the immense window behind her seat.

Under the blue sky, she saw a column of smoke rising from the cathedral. Notre-Dame was on fire.

***

Incredulous, they looked from afar, as helpless as the rest of Parisians, of tourists, of Humanity maybe. Elena was sure, the entire world was in this moment watching. Chus and Anne, reunited with her on that bridge once her interview with the lawyer came to such an abrupt end, looked in disbelief. This is how immortal things can die, she thought. She remembered something from her art classes, back in high school, when her teacher talked about how nothing was left of painting from the Greece of the Classic Era, of the works of Zeuxis or Parrhasius (4). Her mind had imagined all these works referenced by texts perishing in a giant fire, all at the same time. An inaccurate image, no doubt. But there was a similar thing happening before her eyes, right now. While more and more sirens yelled – it seemed like all the firefighters in Paris were heading to the cathedral -, they watched how the flames devoured the roof.

“I am worried about Le Duc's spire”, Anne then said, without taking her eyes from the cathedral “Tons and tons of wood and lead can't do good if that thing collapses” her Quebec accent had come back with a vengeance. Normally, it was more subdued. But this wasn't a normal afternoon after all. “There's a reason why the original spire had to be dismantled by 1792” (5).

It was one of the longest sentences they had heard from her. The soprano then noticed that she was almost tearing up. The svelte structure pointing to the sky and topped by a metal rooster which contained relics could be seen among the dense smoke of a yellowish tone, but flames licked already its base after presumably – Elena wasn't sure - having devoured the roof over the ambulatory.

“Can it resist?” Chus asked then. He, at the same thing, was cheking Twitter, due to his old habits. At his side, a young man suddenly knelt, followed by two or three people more. There was a surreal feeling about it, about people from the 21th Century kneeling to ask for the salvation of that building which had survived centuries, wars and even neglect, and that was now menaced. The same scene, she thought, probably had happened repeatedly in past eras, when a catastrophe of this kind took place. People praying. _Please save my cathedral. Please save my temple. Please save my city._ She absurdly thought about that silver cross Francesca gave her, and that is in some drawer in Madrid. Other individuals limited themselves to film the scene with their smartphones. Most of them just looked, dumbfounded.

Anne's eyes filled with tears as the spire was definitely engulfed by flames, but she managed to answer.

“Yes. I hope so. The structure of a gothic cathedral can resist practically everything. The roof... is lost. And the forest. I have seen similar fires before”. The  _ forest _ . The structure under the roof, made of oak beams; some of them, not all of course, had been there from the 13 th Century. “One of them” she added, looking Elena “happened in your country, back in 1966. It destroyed the roof, but the vault underneath was left intact. Leon cathedral (6)”.

“I didn't' know”, Elena said. As everyone else, she was probably too shocked to be ashamed of it. Obviously Anne had a thing for gothic cathedrals.

“However”, the community manager added a second later “Leon had not the problem with the spire. If it falls...” she doubts for a moment and then correct herself “No,  _ when it falls _ it's going to cause damage in the ribbed vault”.

“He's not making that speech”, Chus said abruptly, whispering to Elena's ear. The soprano blinked back tears. Lord or whatever it's up there have mercy, that had been one of her first thoughts. How this could affect him. How this could  _ damage _ him. “He will be heading to the cathedral”. She looked at the building across the river. The spire was now completely ablaze, from bottom to top. It was leaning. The crowd in the bridge was growing. Everything in the city was paralyzed, waiting.

“It's over” Anne said with a sob. There was a collective gasp, a cry as the spire collapsed, falling on the now – presumably - unprotected vault. “Please resist” she said, like the cathedral was a living thing and could heard her. The young man at Chus side stopped praying and, his head down, started to sing.

Dozen of voices responded. It was the moment when Elena understood that no one would sleep that night in Paris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with the final notes. And yes, there was an allusion to the lawyer and her fabulous desk several chapters back only to have Elena learning about the fire from there.  
> (1) Mad scenes are very common in the belcantist repertoire. Bellini, Donizetti, etc, all included a long, difficult scene during which the heroine (Verdi is one of the rare composers who wrote a mad scene for a male singer, in his early work Nabucco) descends into madness. The classical exemple is this one from Lucia di Lammermoor, even if the tradition had started back in 1789 with Paisiello's Nina.  
> (2) Orca a.k.a. Orca the killer whale is a 1977 film about a male orca looking for revenge after a boat captain accidentally kills his pregnant mate and unborn calf. For some, a Jaws rip-off, for others, an interesting kinda reverse version of Moby Dick. Two things are sure: the original soundtrack by Morricone is haunting and extremely beautiful and neither this movie nor A New Hope are Elena's favorite thing made in that year.  
> (3) As its name indicates, the glass harmonica produced music by the friction of a series of glass bowls. Donizetti wrote for this instrument in Elisabetta al Castelo di Kenilworth and also for the Mad Scene in Lucia di Lammermoor. The alternate version he wrote for Lucia uses a flute instead of glass harmonica. It was common procedure until its recent "revival" to use the flute. For you to appreciate the difference between the eerie tone the glass harmonica provides, here's the complete mad scene with it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2bMIE8E4eKI and without it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8VEuikEuV5A. Naturally you'll find there's something familiar in the tune... if you have seen The Fifth Element.  
> (4) Both are well known painters from Ancient Greece. Their works are only known thanks to written references.  
> (5) Notre-Dame's original spire, which had been built c. 1250, caused from the very beginning troubles because of its weight and was dismantled at the ending of the 18th Century, such dismantling starting before the French Revolution. Viollet-le-Duc, in his (imaginative) restoration included a higher spire made of wood and lead.  
> (6) The cathedral of Leon (Spain) suffered in May 1966 a fire caused by lightning that bears similities with that of Notre-Dame. At the end the firefighters decided to control the fire and leave it to consume the wooden structure since the weight of water would do greater damage to the cathedral. More information (in Spanish) here: http://cosinasdeleon.com/el-incendio-de-la-catedral-de-leon/  
> So that's all for today. Hope you enjoyed as, as always, feel free to comment and critizice.  
> For the next one, more fire of course. Until then!


	34. Erbebe, Du Riesenbau!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fire than you ever wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like one of the characters, I, too, have a thing for gothic cathedrals. So maybe you have guessed what this chapter is about. It relies in a pair of books and a documentary, but obviously its fictionalized as all the rest written in this story, what else. Besides, as you know, English is not my first language so beware of the mispellings. Also, I tried to not be carried away as far as architecture is related. Did I succeed with this chapter? You'll be the judges; enjoy then (or not, it depends). References and all can be read in the end notes.

**XXXIV**

**_Erbebe, Du Riesenbau!_ **

  
  
  
  


_ Erbebe, Du Riesenbau! _

_ Falle und begrabe _

_ mich Unter Dir! _

(Tremble, you monstrous building!

Collapse, and bury me

under your weight)

SCHMIDT _ , Notre Dame  _ (1) _  
_

  
  


**15** **th** **April 2019**

When Napoleon had married his second wife, the Archduchess Marie Louise, a series of festivities had celebrated the new alliance with the Habsburgs. The culmination was a reception at the Austrian Embassy, or rather at a ballroom built in the gardens, a pavilion built in freshly painted wood and draperies which at some point of the night caught fire. The witnesses of the tragedy had written about tiaras melting on women's heads, of a rush for the garden, of people being trampled, of acts of heroism and cowardice, as usual in great tragedies. This night couldn't be compared with that one more than two hundred years ago. There was no casualty so far, whereas the fire at the Austrian Embassy on that Summer night of 1810 had caused a still controversial number of victims – so effective was the Emperor's censorship that it was difficult even now to establish it -; but that night had, however, a link with was happening right now, in that room so crowded and yet so silent.

What was relevant for him, as he looked at the sketch made by a lieutenant of the fire brigade – a stylized version of the floor plan, with the endangered zones marked in orange – was that the Emperor, after the tragedy, had militarized the firefighters of Paris, until then a civilian organization (2). Napoleon had put them firefighters under the command of a general, and one its successors – there were two generals trying to save Notre Dame that night – was standing before him at the Police prefecture of Paris, after leaving that little piece of paper on a table between them. And he, as the head of the armies, had to take the decision he had just submitted to him. They were surrounded by members of the government, of the National Assembly, of the city council. The archbishop was obviously there, hands clasped. The mayor – a Spaniard by birth, a Frenchwoman by choice – was near. She had been one of the first to arrive there, from the moment she had seen a little column of smoke rising over the spire from her office in the City Hall, just across the Seine. Emmanuel didn't have a good relationship with her, but that didn't matter now, nothing else really mattered but that piece of paper and the request the general was doing. He was asking for lives. He was asking his permission to risk them.

“If we leave now, it's going to collapse”. Flames menaced the northern tower. Losing the belfry would mean losing the cathedral, the general said at his finger pointed the drawing. The author had been up there, had run up the stairs, recognizing where the damage was, making photos of gargoyles vomiting melted lead as if Hell had descended upon them. Hell, indeed, had descended over Notre-Dame, especially after the spire, in its fall, had provoked a sort of crater in the ribbed vault. It was weird, inimaginable, to decide over this, in this place. Why a building that was supposed to be still there centuries after he, and those in the room, and all the living human beings that now witnessed the fire, in Paris or anywhere else were dust and ashes was in the verge of perishing. The fire, pushed by the wind, had devoured the roof and now the belfry was almost at its reach. If the northern tower and its eight bells - which had been newly recasted a few years ago - fell, its sister, weakened, would follow half an hour later, probably. And then nothing would save the rest.

That was why the general was asking for lives and, like in anti terrorist operations of the French Army, the President had to decide if these lives were risked or not, and had to do it right now. The lives of members of the brigade who had already lost two members months ago, firefighters who would climb the stairs and save the tower from inside. The lives of human beings that could maybe perish with these old walls that had witnessed so much.  _ We can lost them all, with the cathedral _ , the general had said, before adding that he knew the risk, that he assumed it.  _ Sauver ou perir _ , was their motto, the motto of the Paris brigade. To save or to die. But, the general had said, that was the only option, the only way. Unless they decided the battle was lost and leave the cathedral to the dragon that had sunk its claws on its martyrized body.  _ Martyrized _ . Was it right to use that word? The inhabitants of Reims had used it for their own cathedral, bombed and set on fire during World War I and later rebuilt (3). He looked down, to the sketch that seemed to be like a battle plan. A battle plan to defeat that dragon, that beast that roared near them.

When the spire had fallen, the noise had been immense, as if a plane had landed on the vault, the general had said. So powerful was the blow that it had slammed the doors shut. Not only those of the main entrance; all of them, leaving the firefighters momentarily trapped. The entire building had trembled and more debris – stones had been falling from the very beginning on the altar, as well as melted lead from the spire – had fallen on the nave and the transepts. The flying buttresses had resisted, and the main structure was, for the moment, safe. It wasn't sure for how much time. The treasure of the cathedral was safe in the city hall, as well as the crown of thorns; a human chain had been organized so all the precious artifacts were safe; the fate of the relics inside that metal rooster topping the spire seemed to be unknown but everyone gave it for lost. No one was sure about what was happening to the stained glass, especially to the great northern rose window. A bunch of Twitter accounts were expanding the rumor that it had been lost, but that was false, the general insisted.

A bunch of false rumors were running that night. And a lot of people who knew what to do better than the fire brigade itself. Starting by Donald Trump himself – the man did live stuck to his Twitter account -, who had suggested water tanks. The best way, no doubt, to end with the fire and the cathedral at the same time. Meanwhile a myriad of weird theories were shared. That it was a false flag to blame the yellow vests; that the cathedral had been set on fire by the yellow vests themselves; that Nostradamus had predicted the fire or that a painter had predicted it – and they shared a drawing of Reims during the bombing -; that Muslims were celebrating it and laughing at the burning cathedral; that  _ he _ was the one who had set the building on fire. The kind of absurd stories that spread quicker than fire.

What would happen, if the cathedral collapsed? If the towers, and the bells – the greatest and only survivor of the Revolution curiously named Emmanuel – fell in to the fire? It would depend, but it could bury under its stones the firefighters still trying to extinguish or at least control the fire, which probably would be extended to the nearby streets, where no neighbours were left at the balconies. From there... what would happen? The well fed beast would expand even more, maybe, and become uncontrollable. It was time, the general said, to act. To conquer the battlefield, or to abandon it to the enemy.

***

_ “This time we are checking the lighting of the video before is sent to TF1, isn't it?”. _

__ _ So the morning had started for he and Brigitte, with their usual shared breakfast. He had looked at the pile of French and foreign printed press, always left at his reach; either entire newspapers or copies of their front pages. The French ones seemed to be busy with his speech; press of the rest of the world seemed to be more centered in other things of course.  _ The New York Times  _ had Tiger Woods in its front page – a image that also dominated  _ The Guardian _ 's one - , celebrating his victory at the Masters. At for the main story, it seemed to be about Trump blaming his staff for something, he should read that later. Spain's  _ El Pais _ was centered, of course, about their snap elections and Sánchez asking for the vote of the moderate citizens against VOX, an emergent far-right party. As for  _ Il Corriere della Sera _ , it seemed to be focused on Libya; ah, yes, another messy affair, that one. At the mention of the lighting on the video, Brigitte had looked at him over her coffee and answered: _

__ _ “Sure they'll do. I mean  _ we _ ”. For she knew of course that her opinion would weight. As always did. _

__ _ Emmanuel was making an allusion to one of last year's greatest fiascos as far as compol was related. One of his recorded speeches had been sent to the broadcast stations without even checking if it was properly, or even decently edited. Lighting was so dim that French citizens watched in their homes the unusual image of a president almost whispering in the dusk, his hands on the white sheets where his speech was scratched – rather than written - in blue ink. When they had realized the mistake, it had been too late and that's how the thing had been aired. Surely other speeches – the one of the 10 _ _ th _ _ december and the traditional New Year's eve address – had been somewhat erased the memory of that image. Not from his mind, though. How insignificant all these worries seemed now, in that crowded - but silent – conference room dedicated to the memory of the 167 policemen who fought for the liberation of Paris. How everything had been blown away by that fire which the wind pushed closer and closer to the heart of the cathedral. _

__ _ A little chirp emitted by his personal phone had distracted him then. Almost involuntarily he had looked at the screen. He received thousand of mails, not all of them were friendly – indeed a considerable part of them were hostile, if not heinous -, and in many cases he just plainly ignored them. However, this one contained the words  _ I'LL BE IN PARIS TODAY _ at the beginning and he knew from whose individual it came. He must had reacted in a particular way; or rather it was that she knew him as well as she knew herself. But when his eyes left the screen his wife was looking at them, her head resting on her palm, with a curious expression. _

__ _ “From her, it isn't”. _

__ _ She was assertive, this wasn't even a rhetorical question that required of his answer, which he gave anyway, because, as usual, he had vowed to be honest with her in this matter, always. _

__ _ “She's going to be in Paris today. Legal affairs, it seems, that lawsuit against the Opéra”. _

__ _ “And she is inviting you to join her at some point of the city” another rhetorical question. _

__ _ “Yes, she would like to, but thinks it's unlikely” he made a pause, took a sip of his own coffee “She's right on both, of course”. He had made no comment about his own opinion in the matter. She had blinked, surprised. Ah, there was again; Brigitte often said that he always surprised her, in one or another way, in spite of how well she knew him, his thoughts and his feelings. He wondered which proportion of these surprises was positive and which was not. _

__ _ “You'll have to explain me that later”. _

__ _ “Oh, I'll do”. He regretted being unable to join Elena that night, but he didn't see how and besides there was so little time and he didn't want to left Brigitte alone that day, after a speech that was supposed to mark the beginning of the second part of his tenure. Elena would understand. Maybe. Would his wife? Probably. _

__

*******

Someone was sitting in the room discreetly, in a corner, his face covered by his hands. He was the master of conservation of monuments and sites. He knew that cathedral that he considered almost as an individual which breathed and suffered. He was familiar with Notre Dame's story through the centuries, had veiled over its scars, and now he was reacting as if that building that was supposed to be there when all of them were dust and ashes was a dear friend who fought for survival in the hospital. The man, the president was told, had cried when the spire collapsed. He wasn't the only one who had cried that night. The rector had been contemplating in disbelief, helpless, how the the fire spread, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“There are people saying that it was a bad omen”, someone had commented. It was a reference to the statues of the apostles that had adorned the spire. They had been retired during the works of restoration. French media, and the rest of the world too, had seen, days before the fire, how the saints were transported far from the cathedral, with an helicopter, one by one. Among them, St. Thomas, whose statue had the traits of Viollet-le-Duc, the architect whose  _ imaginative _ – so to speak - intervention had given the cathedral the aspect it had until that night. But bad omens are only remembered after facts, and not before. It had happened too with that fire at the Austrian Embassy that originated the reorganization of the brigade. It was only regarded as a bad omen when the Empire had fallen.

No, what had happened was that half an hour had passed between the start of the fire and its detection. Half an hour, only half an hour, the same amount of time that according to the general the Southern tower would resist, if its sister fell. Half an hour lost that would be, maybe, fatal. It seemed so little time, and yet it meant the difference between an easily controlled fire and this unconceivable calamity. Ironically enough the absence of sprinklers or fire walls in the forest in order to preserve its architecture and historicity had been its condemnation.

_ “Did you think it was too long?” he asked Brigitte. She always thought he wasn't concise enough, or, that sometimes, he used words that had left the dictionary of the average French citizen in 1800, more or less. _

_ Sibeth, in spite of being named spokeswoman of the government still veiled, now and then, over his physical appearance when addressing to the people. She had re distributed the powder on his face, and had brushed his hair before the video started to be recorded. They had chosen a relatively austere bureau to film it, with a – relatively- austere desk. And yes, the lighting seemed to be correct, but they had to revise it. _

__ _ The speech or rather a first draw had been sent to the journalists. It only had to be revised and sent to TV stations. This time he hadn't imitated Charles de Gaulle just before filming, like he had did back in december, causing the laughs of his team. Before Brigitte answered, Sibeth's voice arrived to his ears. _

__ _ “Something's happening” her eyes were glued to the screen of her smarphone. _

Something's happening.  _ These words were often the prelude of a catastrophe. A terrorist attack, an accident, another scandal protagonized by one of his ministers, a new episode of the neverending Benalla affair. But he wasn't prepared for Sibeth's words after that. _

_ “The cathedral. The cathedral is on fire”. _

__ _ It seemed something absurd, inverosimile. The cathedral is on fire; of all the things he had expected to hear during his presidency this is the most difficult to believe. But yes, the cathedral was on fire, and suddenly he realized that the speech he had filmed, the great beginning of the second part of his tenure, would never be aired. Almost in the same moment that he heard Sibeth's words he knew that nothing of that seemed to be important in that moment. “We are going there”, he had said, grabbing Brigitte's hand. _

__ _ There, mixed between the members of the government – exception made of Christophe who was on official visit elsewhere - , the firefighters, the journalists, he just watched, incredulous and helpless, as the rest of them. _

*******

  
  


He gave a nod and a wink to the general, even if his face was grave and serious.  _ Very well, go and save it for us. _ Except that he didn't say that, he didn't say anything, just a nod and a wink and the general went immediately to ask for volunteers, saying that he wouldn't blame his brigade if no one wanted to risk their lives for the possibility of saving Notre Dame. As for Emmanuel, he looked, as the rest did, as the general went to gave the order. He felt several pair of eyes fixated on his back; this was not so different from the times he had to do the same, there in the PC Jupiter. It was his decision, his alone, and his guilt if these volunteers died. It always felt that way. Only that if there were victims tonight, it would be a few meters from where he was, and not thousands of kilometers away.

Drones and helicopters had unveiled how the cathedral looked from above now: a cross of fire, with an immense crater in the intersection. The roof was considered lost and firefighters, with the help of a robot, refreshed the main pillars of the nave and aisles, while the volunteers – no one had said no – climbed to the towers and installed themselves in a platform between them. It was the last attempt, the last disperate try to save that building that had been supposed to bury the Paris it had saw at its birth, as Gérard de Nerval had written, until, to use his metaphors, Time, as wolves do, would devour its bones made of stone (4). Far from the crowded – but silent – room, the churches of Paris were ringing their bells, in a sort of lament for their elder sister.

How much time was spent in that wait? It's over, the general said. It's over and they have done it. Notre Dame would survive that night; no one knew still if the cathedral would be there when he would be dust and ashes, but tonight they wouldn't see it crumble. Could the interior be visited?, the president asked to the general. Was it safe enough? The man seemed to hesitate, as stones could still fall, but he didn't say no, as the president, taking the hand of his wife, crossed the square, followed by the Prime Minister and other members of the government, as well as the president of the Assemblée Nationale and the press. The mayor had taken the general's arm, and the rector followed. Emmanuel crossed the square, congratulating the firefighters he found in his way. They ventured inside the nave, and looking up, they saw the wound inflicted to the vault.

“It's the Apocalypse”, the rector said, shaken.

Between the vault and the sky, fire was still burning, subdued but present,, and embers fell near to the altar. The press was on third, or fourth row, trying to get an image of the interior, of the altar half hidden by the debris.  “It's a miracle”, someone said then. The cross was intact, as well as Coustou's pietà. “It's a miracle”, was repeated as the flashes illuminated the statue's face, with its eyes turned to the vault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for the final notes:  
> 1) Franz Schmidt's Notre Dame is one of the operas based on Victor Hugo's novel (one of them, written by Louise Bertin, had a libretto by Hugo himself). The most famous piece of Schmidt's opera is its intermezzo:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0AcQXmaaYQU  
> 2) The fire at the Austrian Embassy the night of July the 1st 1810 did, indeed, cause the reorganization of Paris fire brigade and its militarization.  
> 3) More about the bombing of Reims: https://historyboots.wordpress.com/2018/04/26/the-architectural-scars-of-war-the-bombardment-of-the-reims-cathedral/  
> 4) Gérard de Nerval's poem reads:  
> Notre-Dame est bien vieille : on la verra peut-être  
> Enterrer cependant Paris qu'elle a vu naître ;  
> Mais, dans quelque mille ans, le Temps fera broncher  
> Comme un loup fait un boeuf, cette carcasse lourde,  
> Tordra ses nerfs de fer, et puis d'une dent sourde  
> Rongera tristement ses vieux os de rocher!
> 
> Bien des hommes, de tous les pays de la terre  
> Viendront, pour contempler cette ruine austère,  
> Rêveurs, et relisant le livre de Victor :  
> \- Alors ils croiront voir la vieille basilique,  
> Toute ainsi qu'elle était, puissante et magnifique,  
> Se lever devant eux comme l'ombre d'un mort!
> 
> (Notre Dame is quite old: one will see it perhaps  
> Still bury that Paris it saw at its birth;  
> But in a few thousand years Time will cause to collapse  
> (As wolves do to cattle) this carcass to earth,  
> Twist its tendons of iron, then with a deaf tooth  
> Chew its bones made of rock, which fills us with ruth.
> 
> From all over the world, many people will go  
> To gaze at and brood on this ruin thus purged,  
> But these dreamers, rereading the work of Hugo:  
> Will imagine they see standing there the old church,  
> Just as it was in its glory and power:  
> Like the shadow of death, the cathedral will tower!)  
> Source: http://stephenfrug.blogspot.com/2019/04/poem-of-day-notre-dame-de-paris-de.html
> 
> Well that's all. Feel free to comment and critizise and... until the next one.  
> 


	35. Grande, o Numi, è il dono vostro

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just passionate opera people being passionate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, old disclaimers. Remember, all this is fictional except for the details I include to give some "local colour" like Verdi would say of Aida's trumpets. About the rest, English is not my first language as you have read again and again. Without further ado, enjoy. Notes about opera and other references are found at the end, in case you are a little lost.

**XXXV**

**_Grande, o Numi, è il dono vostro_ **

  
  


_Grande, o Numi, è il dono vostro_

_lo conosco e grata io sono._

_Ma il dolor che unite al dono_

_è insoffribile per me._

(Great is your gift, oh gods,

I know it and I am grateful

But the suffering that goes with it

is intolerable to me.)

GLUCK, _Orfeo ed Euridice, Vieni, appaga il tuo consorte._ Act III

**May**

  
  


_“Andate in Russia! Strega!_ (1) _”_

There was a time, two centuries ago, in which this opera house belonged to the nobility of the city, or rather, each box was owned by one of its families, adorned with their coat of arms; they had total liberty as far as the interior ornamentation was concerned, as far as they didn't change the exterior curtains, which were in red and gold, to give an harmonious appearance to the horseshoe shaped auditorium. Inside the boxes, then, each owner could arrange the walls as they pleased, but little is left now of that splendour, with notable exceptions like that of box number 13, the so-called _palchetto_ with its walls covered with mirrors (2). It's probable that their owners wanted to spy all the neighbouring boxes, as well as the stage. The bombing of Milan in 1943 had severely damaged the auditorium, and when la Scala opened three years later most of the boxes had been restored in a uniform red pattern. Yes, there was a time when people ate, made love, gossiped or died in the boxes without caring about the music, or spent the entire night enchaining performances no one really cared about, as if the singers and musicians were in their own, parallel universe. The times were gone but the spirit of Milan's opera goers, especially of these guys in the upper gallery, the much feared _loggione_ from where the yell came, was still alive and well.

And indeed the performers of this evening seem to be in their own, parallel universe too: the women of the chorus forming a little crowd around Olga, or rather Amneris, the Egyptian princess. Their hands are still holding flowers or musical instruments, some of them have just danced, and some of them are fretting around the princess, who is supposed to be prepared for the grandiose triumphal scene which closes Act II. The yell has unchained a storm of boos and whistles, for and against the opinion so passionately expressed by that unknown individual. Down there in the pit, the conductor, in his own, isolated universe, has tried to ignore the _loggionisti_ and go ahead with the music, until the brouhaha is too much. So he has crossed his arms, the baton impatiently hitting his hip, and his back leaning against the wooden barrier that divides him from the first rows.

“ _Povera Scala!_ ” (3) the same voice insists. 

From her seat, Elena watches the conductor's impatience and the audience's wrath. Maybe he's happy he's not the target this time, she says to herself. How many evenings of this kind la Scala has lived in its more than two hundred years of existence? Always a passionate public that can adore you a moment and then bring you down, divided in eternal rivalries around singers or conductors, people who literally lived for opera as much as a singer would do. People who had an encyclopedic knowledge of names, dates, performances and written or unwritten musical notes. People who shared with them the joys and the sorrows a privileged human voice can produce. And sorrow always comes for a singer, when confronted with a furious aficionado that has paid a ticket and uses the right to complain.

Yes, Olga is now experiencing that suffering that often is part of their job, and Elena's temptation - not all singers are as gracious as Pavarotti, one of the long list of illustrious names that have been booed in this opera house elevated to absolute temple of music – is to lean forward and yell at the loggionisti something of the style of _“Basta, cretini!”._ A temptation so strong that her head is almost out of the box and her mouth opening when a hand tries to hold her back as a voice whispers: “That's not a good idea, Madame Mendieta... Elena”. So she presses her lips in a thin, angry line and leans back in her seat. She would kick something if she could, but Maestro Sobinov is right.

“They are exaggerating. It's not fair”

“Maybe, Madame, but you won't help her by joining to the melee”, the Russian conductor answers in a quick whisper. Elena's lips become an even thinner and angrier line, but she recognizes he has a point. 

“Don't worry, Elena. She won't be discouraged by this”, another voice says. Angelika Moser is, like her, a guest in the maestro's box. He has made of Milan his home, and they have started to prepare that famous _Norma_ on tour, or rather he's telling them about his _vision_ – he loves the word – of Bellini's masterpiece in his villa on the outskirts of the city. The three of them have their own schedule and the tenor – an asshole playing an asshole, Angelika has said – is nowhere to be seen. Besides, they'll have to meet again to rehearse before the summer arrives. It's a curious experience, being the guests of Maestro Sobinov. The young man cultivates his resemblance to Cantelli, to the extreme that some veteran – an understatement no doubt – opera goers were brought to tears earlier that evening. They had been there, they said, during the brief time the conductor from Novara had graced this stage. And that of the Piccola Scala, forever vanished after the opera house was last restored (4). 

It's difficult to say, how a singer is going to react to a moment like this one Olga is living right now. Some are galvanized by adversity. Some of them are heartbroken. Some of them even have run away from the stage. But what has been, indeed, Olga's crime? As Amneris was repeating for the third time her long, yearning, sensual phrase about her love for Radamès – unrequited, naturally – her voice had failed her. Merciless, the loggionisti had made use of their long-earned right to boo performers, no matter their prestige abroad or how great their fame was. From her seat, Elena had no way to read Olga's mind. She was there, in her parallel universe on stage, just waiting for the things to calm down.

The conductor raises a hand, without turning his head. It is a gesture to the public; maybe a “Very well, you can boo the hell out of us at the end of Act II but let us go ahead” or maybe a “Would you _please_ shut up already?”. Internally, he maybe is swearing. Conductors weren't spared at la Scala and all the music directors – with the exception of poor Cantelli maybe – ended being hated at some point of their time at the helm of this opera house, and fondly remembered or regretted once they were away from Via Filodramatici. It was, an inner voice said to Elena, not so different with what Presidents of the French Republic experienced. Strikes and protests included. She smiles softly to herself at that thought. But conductors, even if now and them have to exit the opera house escorted by the police when audience is not happy with them – is part of their job, aficionados will tell – are not under much serious threats. Most of the time, anyway.

“ _So you have come at last”, she had said. They were standing in the living room, the week after the fire. She had called for him, and he answered that call when she no longer had the hope. He had caught her just after the shower; or rather Alphonse had phoned her._

_“Five minutes, Madame”_

_“But I am not ready!”, she had answered._

_Who could have expected that. After her lawyer had to cut short their last interview because of the fire, Elena had asked for another. The result was that, one week after flames devoured Notre Dame, she was again in Paris for a day, and she had again sent a message, without real hope of Emmanuel joining her. She had come alone, without Chus or Anne, to the same apartment. And after having a shower she received Alphonse's call and the famous “Five minutes, Madame”._

_“I said I am not ready”, Elena had insisted. “I just had a shower and I'm only wearing a bathrobe”._

_“In my humble opinion, Madame, and I am not inside his head, I think he won't care”._

“Hush, there we go again”. The storm having subdued, the music resumes; the orchestra plays Aida's theme, or rather the theme associated with Aida's doomed love. The eponymous heroine enters the stage. A young Chinese soprano with a voice so huge that one wonders where she hides it. To Elena's relief, Olga seems undeterred by the scene she had just lived, and she sounds more secure than before. Between two recitals dedicated to _Seguidilla_ – which is selling well enough, for a recital of such kind anyway – and the sessions with Maestro Sobinov, Elena had decided to attend one of the performances of Olga's run. The premiere had been smoothly, but this evening – the second of the first cast - is the broadcasted one, probably the reason why the _loggionisti_ have profited of the moment to voice their discontent. She had thought before attending that showing up there was better than all the emails in the world. Now she's not sure; at least, she doesn't know if she would like to be in her place right now, friends or not friends among the audience.

But, whatever she was feeling, it was clear that Olga has resolved to conceal it. Majestically, she dismisses the maids, leaves her seat – a tacky chaise-longe with a vague resemblance to Egyptian furniture - and goes to confront Aida with a fake sympathy after the defeat of the Ethiopian army. In one of the many moments in which the characters manipulated each other – often with poor Aida as a target – she tries to trick her rival into confessing her love for Radamès... and succeeds. She almost succeeds in unveiling Aida's great secret about her identity too – she's actually another princess, even if everyone believes her a slave – during one of the few flashes of personality the heroine of the play has – she does little more than longing for death, given how her heart is torn between the love she feels for Radamès and the one towards her homeland and her family. Amneris makes a more interesting character and her big moment is still to arrive. Once Aida's not-so-big secret – that she loves Radamès and that, unlike Amneris, she's loved in return – is out, she pleads to her powerful rival. _Tu sei felice, tu sei possente, io vivo solo per questo amor_ (5) _,_ she cries. Mrs. Blackwood is constantly trying to convince her about singing _Aida_. She considers the role too heavy, and that's the perfect excuse, even if weird for someone who has been always daring in her choice of repertoire. Her main problem with the character is that she doesn't seem that interesting to her eyes. Apart from being in love and asking constantly for the mercy of death... which kind of personality Aida _really_ has? Amneris, on the other hand… There are very few cases of sopranos singing Amneris – Elena remembers Dimitrova, who had once alternated the roles in the same run and few singers else -, but why not, she thinks as she watches Olga’s movements on the stage. Maybe she should talk to Mrs. Blackwood about that.

“ _So you have come”, she had said, and he had kissed her in Mrs. Blackwood apartment. Alphonse was right, he didn't care about the bathrobe, he just had slided his hands inside, caressing her body. Curtains had been drawn over the windows giving to the terrace. There was a lateral but gorgeous view of L'Etoile and the Arc de Triomphe from there. But she had drawn the curtains to cover them; it was one of the few things she had the time to do before he arrived._

_“Of course”, he had said, his breath against her neck. Their feet almost got trampled on the bathrobe, once it was on the floor few moments later. He had barely taken his jacket off and she had felt the cold of the belt clasp in her skin. It had been strange, but pleasant._

Curtain falls on Act II, scene I, as the backdrop is changed for the triumphal scene. Since the last restoration, the opera house is more agile in scene changing. The scenic tower that now dominates Piermarini’s building (6) and that was criticised when it was inaugurated provides great agility. The public’s reaction to the end of the duet is subdued, but at least Olga has saved the situation. Elena still hears a whistle coming from the gallery, especially because the soprano has had two or three imprecissions too, but the angry loggionista is soon drowned by applause coming from the rest of the public. Not only full of real aficionados but by tourists that consider attending a performance at la Scala as part of their experience. They’ll maybe leave after the end of Act II, the _famous_ part of the opera. In any case, they are, for the good and for the bad, less passionate about singing and just clap their hands politely, while, probably, the _loggionisti_ look down on them. 

The call of the trumpets from the stage band, as the orchestra answers them, introduce the chorus _Gloria all’Egitto_ . Glory to Egypt; is often said that this music impressed so much the Khedive at the dress rehearsal that he used it as a sort of national anthem. Elena doesn’t really know if the legend is true or not. Popular culture also says that this opera inaugurated Cairo’s opera house when actually wasn’t finished on time and had to be replaced with _Rigoletto_ . Curtain opens on a very crowded scene at the gates of Thebes. A multitude of members of the court, priests and priestesses, slaves and dancers soon to be followed by the famous triumphal march that everyone, from opera to football fans, knew so well. There were many ways in which this scene could be staged – even cutting the music of the _ballabili_ if the opera house was so tiny that there was no way the dancers could be there at the same time than the chorus. There was nothing special about this production so Elena looked away.

_“I am almost glad the cathedral caught fire”, she had said, her head lying against his shoulder._

_“Elena!” he had sounded vexed and legitimately horrified at her words._

_“… otherwise, my lawyer wouldn’t be forced to give me another appointment and we wouldn’t be here together. So I am almost glad the cathedral caught fire. In a certain way, that’s it”._

_“That’s nasty. I should hate you” Emmanuel was waving a finger at the singer, as if he was ready to scold her._

_“If you hate me, you have a strange way to show it, Monsieur-le-Président”, she had said, carefully separating every single word “Or rather you had a strange way to show it minutes ago. Would you please repeat all that, in order to clarify your position?”_

_“You are awful”_

_“I know”_

There it is, the world wide famous, played at nauseam triumphal march. Verdi had ordered six especial trumpets, made on purpose for his opera. Three in A flat, three in B, his own very version of the ancient Egyptian trumpets, or the version he thought more accurate. It had been one of his ideas, a reconstruction of ancient instruments to give “local colour” to his opera. He had seen an ancient flute he had seen in a museum in Florence, but had found it disappointing, not so different from the one a shepherd would play. Forgetting all pretence of historicity then, he had created his own version of how an ancient trumpet would sound. Three of them played the triumphal march in A flat, and the other three answered in their own key. It was effective, exciting and instantly popular. As much as she dislikes the tune now, Elena had to recognize how rousing it still was. 

_Then she had laughed, and he, in spite of his own words, too. No, she wasn’t glad, how could anyone think… However, it was true that, her previous appointment being so abruptly cut short, her lawyer had given her another one. And there she was in Paris again, a week after the fire, lying on the bed of that apartment Mrs. Blackwood had, and with him at her side. There are no cameras, Chus had said, in all seriousness, the first night they had spent there. Apparently he knew about these things, a thought that made her uncomfortable. It had been a sleepless night, as they watched the news and Anne cried a lot. At the end the three of them had fell asleep in the sofa and no one touched the bed. Now she had come alone, and waited until he came, using a police operation as pretext to cut the traffic. It’s false, but that will entertain the neighbours, he had said._

_“But I said almost”, she insisted, still playfully. She was looking at the painting that Mrs. Blackwood had chosen to adorn the bedroom. Of all the possible things, she had picked a Leda with the swan, a particularly graphic one from the Rococo era, with an assorted gilded frame. Unless it was an imitation from the end of the 19_ _th_ _Century. Legs spread, her skin luminescent, her hair adorned with pearls, the woman was looking the white swan with anticipation – an undecipherable smile on her parted pink lips – behind her long, half-closed lashes. She was offering herself to the metamorphosed god like an open flower. How funny. It was a copy in the style of Boucher_ (7) _, an incongruent object in an otherwise modern apartment. She had wondered if Leda knew secrets from Mrs. Blackwood too. Her expression seemed to mock her. It was like a painting just out of one of these westerns with obscure artworks that would be considered racy hanging at the Saloon. Only that none of these had been as explicit as the Leda Mrs. Blackwood had decided to have at her bedroom. Emmanuel had looked at the painting when they had entered the room and mumbled_ Interesting _or something of the style._

Fortunately, there are no animals involved in the scene. The extravagance of certain directors who included horses, and even elephants in this part of _Aida_ seemed now limited to venues like the Arena in Verona, even if displays of such kind were becoming more and more unusual. Still, she remembers a recent controversy when a production of the modernist opera _Die Materie_ included an entire flock of 100 sheeps during Act IV and there was a well tempered Charolais bull in Bastille during the production of _Moses und Aaron_ (8) . The march and _ballabili_ ended, it was time again to center in the characters, namely Aida's father, introduced with the rest of Ethiopian prisoners. He's of course their King, but, like his daughter, he prefers to hide his identity. As the prisoners are introduced, the priests chant their menacing invocation of the gods. The Amonasro, Aida’s father, is a baritone with a guttural tone that also gets called out from the upper gallery, but not strongly enough for the conductor to stop again. Even so, a _Povero Verdi!_ is clearly heard, even if it’s difficult to say if the individual is the same than yelled at Olga earlier.

“Oh, he’s not in a good voice tonight”, Angelika comments.

“To be honest, he rarely is”, Sobinov adds, with a frown. “Don’t look at me that way, Madame Mendieta, you know it’s true. He’s not a real baritone, to begin with”.

“That’s harsh.”

“I have heard harshest comments by singers themselves. Plus, he drinks too much, I know it”.

“Maestro!”

“Would you _please_ shut up?” another voice with a heavy German accent asks from the neighbouring box.

They do try to focus in the stage. Amonasro has started his plea for the Ethiopian prisoners, and he’s joined by his daughter and most of the chorus. The priests, on their side, aren’t fond of the idea of showing clemency toward the prisoners or anyone else; it’s clear that Verdi didn’t like them, and it shows. In fact the opera last act is going to start with Amneris echoing the composer anti-clericalism, insults included (Oh, the infamous creatures. They can never have enough bloodshed, and they call themselves the ministers of Heaven, the Egyptian princess will sing). But the king does show clemency and forgives the prisoners, at the same time that offers Amneris to Radames in marriage. The Egyptian princess now express her joy and her pride. Aida cannot longer aspire to even look at Radames, and she is gloating. Olga’s voice soars over the orchestra, fierce and ready to redeem herself even in the eyes of the most radical aficionado. Be prepared. Be prepared for my great scene, she seems to imply.

_“And, how is your recital selling?”_

_“Now that’s an unexpected question. What about I asking something to you about your work, of the_ How is the campaign for the European elections going _kind”._

_“You can ask. And for your information, it’s not going that well in the sense Le Pen is going to win, probably. But she won last time too and she has done very little, with exception of stealing money from European taxpayers. The question is no longer win but to reduce the gap. But she’s toxic for every single group in the Parliament”._

_“What a joyous perspective”._

_“It could be worse. If we have a result good enough we’ll be the Kingmakers of this Commission. And I think we’ll do. And now, what about your recital?”_

_“It could be worse. It sells well enough, maybe I should send you a copy to your palace. Do people still send you things?”_

_“Less than they send to my dog but yes. And, for your information, young lady, I already purchased your…_ Seguidilla _, is the name?”_

_“Yes, exactly. What an honour. You should have brought it. I would sign your copy”._

_“I think your hands can be busy with more interesting things right now, Elena”, he dared. “And mine, for that matter”._

_She laughed. Like Leda there in the wall, she knew how to deal with Jupiter._

How comforting this semi darkness is, to hide her blush. Elena smiles to herself again. Leda had seen many things that night that rivalled with her experience. However, in spite of all that had been said once and of the mythological theme, no feathers were involved. She must remember for next time. _Gloria all’Egitto, ad Iside_ , the chorus repeats. As every single character adds their own view of the situation in which they are involved now – Aida seeing no hope, her father remembering that revenge is close, Amneris joyous at having a wedding on sight and Radames still dumbfounded at the unwelcomed possibility of being the princess future husband and, one day, king of Egypt -, and the three A flat trumpets join in a reprise of the Triumphal march, she closes her eyes, carried away by the music or her less favourite scene in _Aida_ , in spite of herself. It’s the last farewell to grand opera, without being actually one of them. As the last bars of Act II die, there’s still some protest, promptly drowned by most of the public. _“Povero Verdi!”_ (9) the loggionista still yells as the lights in the auditorium are already on. But people are already hurrying to enjoy the interval.

“Well, I think she can do it”, Sobinov says turning his eyes to Elena. She as in Olga, in the great confrontation of Amneris and Radamés and later her outburst at the priests. A good Amneris can steal the show at that point, everyone knows it. He raises his eyes to the ceiling and the giant lamp “This is how it goes. This public almost caused Verdi to give up writing music once, have you heard about that legend?”

“Of course”, Elena answers. She gets up, she wants to see Olga at the dressing room during the interval. They’re probably having dinner together later – nothing is planned yet – but she wants to. “That time he almost gave up because his wife and children had died and his comic opera had been a failure”.

“Yes. Look what they almost did to him. And yet he said he didn’t condemned the public” he looks at the stage, now hidden behind the curtain “ _I allow its severity, I accept its whistles on condition that I’m not asked to be grateful for its applause._ Don’t worry about Olga, Madame Mendieta… Elena. We all have made the experience. She’ll be fine. And now, shall we enjoy of some rest?”.

And they exit the box, leaving the semi-deserted auditorium behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) "Go back to Russia, you witch!"  
> (2) A really gorgeous little box: https://www.focus.it/site_stored/imgs/0004/047/palco_interno_big.900x600.jpg  
> (3) "Poor Scala!" There are numerous documents of the reactions of the loggione against singers, conductors and directors, not always justified. There is, for example, their reaction to Carlos Kleiber's magnificent Otello, in which the isolated protest is confronted with the reaction of the rest of the public: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQY_mwgisfo. And here's the infamous moment when Alagna was booed at the beginning of Aida and fled the stage, forcing his understudy to step on stage: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b111DMgtl3Q.  
> (4) Just next to the wall of the opera house, la Piccola Scala was a little auditorium which opened in 1955. Baroque operas were often performed there, and Cantelli's only complete opera recording comes from there. In 1983 was closed and became a warehouse until its disappareance in the last renovation of la Scala.  
> (5) "You are happy and powerful, I only live for this love"  
> (6) Giuseppe Piermarini (1734-1808), Italian architect who designed the Teatro alla Scala, a building often nicknamed "il Piermarini".  
> (7) It's an attribution to Boucher, but I had this painting in mind (nsfw, in the kind of Rococo nsfw, which uses to be quite nsfw https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archivo:Attribu%C3%A9_%C3%A0_Fran%C3%A7ois_Boucher,_L%C3%A9da_et_le_Cygne_(vers_1740).jpg).  
> (8) It's serious. All these things happened on stage. https://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/26/arts/music/a-new-breed-of-opera-diva-sheep.html  
> (9) "Poor Verdi!"
> 
> ... And that's all for today. Hope you enjoyed. Feel free to comment, criticise, etc etc. Until the next one! :)


	36. Art is calling for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we read someone else's letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! As usual, remember that's a fictional story, with "real" details added now and then. And that English is my second language. Forgive my mispellings. And that end notes are there to clarify some of the references. Enjoy.

**XXXVI**

**_Art is calling for me_ **

_ I long to be a prima donna, donna, donna _

_ I long to shine upon the stage _

_ I have the embonpoint _

_ To become a queen of song _

_ And my figure would look pretty as a page _

_ I want to be a screechy, peachy cantatrice _

_ Like other plump girls I see; _

_ I hate society, I hate propriety, _

_ Art is calling for me. _

HERBERT,  _ The Enchantress _

  
  


Dearest Anne:

It’s quite impressive how you never answer in time, you naughty naughty girl. When I chose you to follow the steps of Madame Mendieta I thought you’d keep me informed of her whereabouts, and, at the same time, that would help you. In fact you apparently left her alone when she had to go back to Paris one week after that fire that worried you so much – seriously, Anne, forget about that, you are as much as art historian as I am a singer, but at least I had the brains to not try to go on when it was clear  _ they _ wouldn’t allow me to go far -, and that you, and that substitute for secretary she has now allowed it. Worse: you tell me that you don’t really know what she did there, apart from the appointment with her lawyer. Oh, I almost can see your surprise as you read this, dearest Anne. I have my ways; did you think you are my only source? But still nothing comes directly from you, or from Madame Mendieta herself, for that matter. Apparently you didn’t succeed in earning her trust, which really bothers me. If only you didn’t act like everyone wanted to eat you, I’d know for sure, right now, more about this affair. Even if I constantly try to trigger an answer from her in that respect, at the moment I have no success. It seems that even her previous manager, that hen of a woman that followed her around, was kept aside from  _ the _ secret. When it was still a secret, I mean. When I suggested that she should write a book of memoirs about her relationship with the president she was, or acted like she was, outraged and later told me she was not Valerie Whats-her-Name (1) and had the guts of saying they are only friends. Well, that last bit, we’ll see. I am sorry, Anne, I don’t remember right now how the woman is called and I am feeling too lazy to look it up. I am currently at the spa, recovering from the trip to Lisbon, when I had to beg the artistic director to hire that contralto that won the contest last year. She’s disgusting and her performances have the depth of a Din-A 4, but she pays very well, so I had to plead her case. I did it so well that my mouth aches from faking my smiles. Now I am trying to ease my nerves, if that horrid music they put as a background at the spa – apparently Opera Chill-out is still a thing here - allows it. Singers are really ungrateful creatures, I should do more conductors, especially young, promising ones. I mean as a manager. I’ve  _ done _ some of them, but given how easily you blush, I won’t tell you a joke about their batons.

Now, going back to Madame Mendieta herself, are you serious about her last idea? Amneris! Ha! Who the heck is going to pay for see, or listen  _ her _ as Amneris? She keeps saying that Aida is too heavy for her and she wants to sing a role for which she lacks of lower notes? Amneris. “She’s more interesting dramatically”, she told me, in a very curt way.  _ More interesting dramatically _ is the euphemism singers often use when they scream to the top of their lungs because they aren’t unable to sing the role. Now what am I supposed to do with the directors and conductors I already had talked to – I wrote  _ talked _ , Anne – about the possibility of an Aida with her? I suspect it’s that Novikova the one who has put that idea inside her brain, after her troubled run at la Scala. Saint Olga, ha! Apparently everyone’s beloved mezzo who is maybe adored but no longer being hired by opera houses can hold a grudge only because I was totally honest to her that time. Singers! One never knows if feign or tell them the truth… Now she’s probably trying to undermine my relationship with Madame Mendieta. 

Anne, is vital you try to dissuade her from ever thinking to sing that role. Show her the reviews and comments people wrote about her dear, dear friend. The last rumours, whatever you want. I don’t care what Verdi wrote or even thought about Amneris, everyone knows he made the character interesting so his last fancy Teresa Stolz could sing it… only that she didn’t in the end. Everyone knew about him and Stolz. E-ve-ry-o-ne. Or try to convince her about the economic waste of having a singer like her doing a secondary role. Yes, Dimitrova sang it, but who cares about her Amneris? Most people remember her as Abigaille or Turandot, or some other character. Not as Amneris. Mind you, once Di Stefano did a cameo in a recording of  _ La Traviata _ as Flora’s servant (2). No one remembers that. If she tells you that example is extreme and that she would be properly paid this time, ignore her arguments. Appeal to her vanity or her pride. Tell her there’s someone younger that will record that Aida in her place, and in the title role; that is something singers, especially female, never forget. There’s always someone younger waiting in the wings. 

I expect your news, sweetie. As usual, don’t use your personal account but the secondary one you created. 

  
  


OLIVIA S. BLACKWOOD

  
  


  
  


***

  
  
  
  
  
  


My dear Anne:

I just came back from the art gallery where Uncle William has decided to celebrate his last exposition. Now that he’s done imitating Miró, he’s full time in his imitation of Pollock phase. All is about dripping, and about Mesopotamian mythology; well, that last bit comes from him. You are too young, dear girl – not that I consider  _ myself _ old – to have listened to one of his improvisations on the  _ Lamentation over the city of Ur  _ (3) , which he used to do during our family gatherings. Your mother must have still an old VHS tape with one of these. Do you know what a VHS is, Anne? And to think I was just telling you that I don’t consider myself as an old lady.

The Prime Minister was there and purchased one of Uncle William’s works, which was about the Myth of Gilgamesh. It’s supposed to depict him crying over the death of his friend Enkidu; actually, one can barely see anything. He approached me, looking very beautiful in his blue suit, even if he was wearing his definitely not beautiful brown shoes, which should be banned. He greeted me warmly but later said he had heard a weird rumour about a certain book I was supposed to be preparing; he wanted to know if this was true. A book about Madame Mendieta, of course. I was surprised he had heard about that, when I have barely spoken about it… Maybe a handful of individuals, Madame Mendieta among them. I told him the eventuality of that book seeing the light was unlikely, and he seemed genuinely relieved. “You must understand, I have a close relationship with the president, I don’t want more destabilizing factors in his life”. This is what he said, while he was sipping the awful champagne they had served us. Another thing that should be banned from existence, dear. Still, I am curious about who told him, I must trace it. Tell me if you learn something from Madame Mendieta herself.

That Bolena production looks positively awful, no matter how Madame Mendieta enjoys the challenge of singing in that position. I feel I must have a talk with the director and tell her clearly that she won’t have Elena Mendieta next time, even with the highest fee. How did she came up with the idea of having her singing her mad scene in a swing pulled by her ladies in waiting? Is not even serious, people will laugh during the premiere. Besides, it looks totally unsafe. I don’t need another singer with a broken leg in my list.

Take care of all that.

OLIVIA S. BLACKWOOD.

  
  


***

  
  


Dear Anne:

Glad you are enjoying Berlin at this time of the year, my dear, but you are again late with your report. It’s fortunate you have something new to tell me. So the Prime Minister knew about the  _ possibility _ of a book at the beginning of the year, when he talked to Madame Mendieta after  _ Fedora _ ? I wonder who told him, I think I should have a word with our common publisher friend. Now I see why she took offense in my jokes about francophone threesomes; Mr. Trudeau clearly ruffled some feathers with his direct questions. I wonder if the third individual concerned by this matter has some idea of the kind of conversation these two had. 

Please read the correction you must send to  _ Palcoscenico _ and tell them to pay attention the next time they write a review. Where are they hiring their critics now? Madame Mendieta did avoid the high note after the final cabaletta because it’s unwritten and in terrible taste, but she can sing it, as she has shown in previous performances. Also include the videos in her YouTube and Instagram accounts. I am sure you can make a pretty edition of all these, one after the other, but PLEASE don’t include stickers this time. You can include her answer to the press about her not being part of the flock of singers that would sing a high, unwritten notes just because a hundred sopranos have done it before. Yes, it's controversial, but that's the point. They’ll talk about it for two weeks, I am sure, and that will coincide with the next issue of  _ Vanity Fair _ where she is one of the “glamorous” new faces of the opera world as they say they are calling the write-up. These photos are quite nice, but I must tell the photographer to pay attention to the details as far as my singers are concerned. Madame Mendieta is lacking one of her hands, for example, in the group photo. Always these problems with Photoshop…

You tell me that Amneris is still a thing in her mind, but that the other day, for the first time, she expressed some doubts after you told her that there was a younger singer who was making the news in her country after suddenly stepping in for an ill colleague. Just like she did at la Scala years ago. She was singing Aida, precisely. Critics have praised her “lighter, fresher” approach. If you want my opinion, it’s pretty obvious that the girl has the voice for singing the priestess off stage and not the title role, but I am not in her head and, for the moment, she’s not one of my singers so I don’t really care if she becomes as voiceless as a rock. The thing is Madame Mendieta has suddenly felt someone else’s breath in her neck and that she doesn’t like it. Try to persuade her, honey. What amuses me is that your conversation started with that fucking fire again. Well, if you have to talk her about the restoration of monuments from the Middle Ages in order to have her attention, I am not against it. Besides, it seems you are slowly looking more trustworthy in her eyes, to the extreme that, if I believe you, she’s starting to be a little unwary of her phone. If you are agile enough next time, then you could send me a photo of her screen when she receives one of these mails? Not that I am doing anything bad with that one, I am just curious. And, as I always tell you and the others, I need to; or rather I  _ must _ know  _ everything _ about my singers.

Don't let me down, my dear.

OLIVIA S. BLACKWOOD.

***

  
  


Good evening, Anne,

After your suggestion, I watched that interview on Spanish TV previous to Madame Mendieta’s recital in Madrid. I am left unimpressed at the lighting and the editing. The colours are too saturated, the sound is awful and they cut short the only musical sample they included. It’s too late now the thing has aired, but it seems a bad omen for the broadcast of the concert. Besides, as you tell me, it’s going to air early in the morning and on a secondary station, and that’s even fortunate there will be a TV broadcast. No, signing copies of  _ Seguidilla _ in one of these retail stores is no compensation. In Madame Mendieta’s place, I would have sent to hell these idiots. Ah, singers. They can be furious about things than make no sense and then allow to be mistreated in that way; they are a peculiar kind of human being. Have you ever heard about Katie Battle… everyone has their favourite story about her (5). Mine is how she communicated with her agents if she didn’t want to talk on the telephone. With spoons; one hit meant yes, two meant no. Yes, everyone has their favourite story about her. As for Elena, you say she’s maybe happy to be in her hometown again and wasn’t really bothered by this treatment, I say it’s unlikely they obtain another interview with her. Ever. Arrange that, darling.

I have no use for that screenshot you send to me, sweetie, it’s impossible to decently read whatever was on her screen. It was something about an used book by Baudelaire? I hoped you will give me  _ details _ and you give me the mail of someone who is asking something about a second hand copy of Baudelaire, because it’s completely, but completely impossible to read what’s below these words. You should try harder, Anne dear, I am not interested on Madame Mendieta’s little marketplace of used books. On top of that she almost caught you and she seemed suspicious. Suddenly, you said, the little trust she started to have in you seem to be vanished. Next time try harder, Anne. 

That problem with  _ Aida  _ must be settled. I’d try my last charge later, when I’ll call her. You said she’s having dinner with her family. This may put her in a good mood; I almost have the recording arranged. Or not, who knows. You know very well, my dear Anne, no one gets to choose their family members. Oh, don’t take this as an offense, my dear. If it’s not her, I’ll have to go by Plan B and suggest another singer. The record label won’t be happy, but I’ll get around it, only that will require more time to persuade them again. 

Must leave you again; there’s a young bass that is waiting for his appointment with me. We’ll see  _ how harder _ he wants to get that role in Bayreuth. There are no puns intended, I swear it!

Yours truly,

  
  


OLIVIA S. BLACKWOOD 

  
  


***

Anne:

Did I understand correctly enough? That you don’t want to go on with this? What are you referring to, darling? Do you really want to go back to your previous work? By the way, what kind of job did you have previously? Ah, exactly. You were answering calls from customers that had nothing better to do than insult you. Now you are being allowed into the great world and you still complain. I still can hear your mother begging me to take you under my wing because she didn’t know what to do about you and your stupid dreams. My poor sister was always the black sheep of the family and didn’t’ marry according to our status but she doesn’t deserve to have you back at home with empty hands. So, I am sorry dear but you’ll have to adapt to my methods. Is that  _ clear _ ? I hope so. Jesus, you made me feel as an horrible person with your letter, did you know?

Good news on the Verdi front. During our Skype call this morning Madame Mendieta’s resistance to sing the role seemed to be weakening, to the extreme that she didn't object to sing  _ Ritorna vincitor! _ in recitals. You may insist a little more, talk her about her young colleague, the one who was singing  _ Aida  _ at the Teatro Real. I know she visited Madame Mendieta at the dressing room after the concert. For what Madame Mendieta told me she seems a nice girl, but she said it in a dismissive way. Maybe the presence of that young, pretty-to-look-at singer has awakened her competitiveness. Maybe the fruit is ripe and we'll catch it soon. By the way, and talking of nice singing girls. Do you remember Samantha? Yes, your friend Samantha, from high school. Apparently she has been training to be a singer, and her dad told me if I wouldn't be so kind to write to the impresario of the local opera house. Poor thing, unfortunately, sounds like an hybrid of Sari Bunchunk Wontner (6) and a drunken sailor. Maybe she should do like Sari... No, not falling from a yacht and die, poor girl, but hiring orchestra and chorus for her performances. The whole time I wanted her head to fell off her shoulders. To think  _ I _ renounced to a singing career and that Samantha's father pretends his daughter can sing.

As a result of that session I have a terrible headache. I think I cant' keep writing. Keep me informed, Anne.

O.S.B.

***  
  


__ From: Olivia S. Blackwood.

__ To: Anne.

From the moment you receive this mail you can consider yourself fired. And better not try to appeal to Madame Mendieta’s clemency. You'll say whatever you want as an excuse and leave. I doubt there will be a hint of sympathy left in her if  _ someone _ tells Madame you were doing screenshots of her email account. Besides, for what she told me last night, she’s annoyed at your, and what she calls my, obsession for Aida. She’s not singing it on stage ever, even if I guaranteed her she wouldn’t be forced to do blackface. And Amneris?  _ We’ll see _ , she said.

I’ll send a recommendation email for that company I was talking you about the other day. This is the most I can do for you. The CEO is a good friend of mine. 

As for the rest, as far as you keep silent, no one will know, and if you ever open your mouth, young lady, I’m going to deny everything. We all win if this remains secret, don’t you think? 

O.S.B.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here come the notes:  
> (1) Of course it's a reference to Valérie Trierweiler and her best-selling book "Merci pour ce moment" which recounts her relationship with François Hollande.  
> (2) Famous tenor Giuseppe di Stefano appears uncredited as Flora's servant in Muti's studio recording of La Traviata. According to the conductor he did it in exchange of a champagne bottle after being extremely annoyed (Muti, not Di Stefano) at the hired tenors to sing that simple phrase.  
> (3) "City Laments" over the destruction of cities are an entire genre of mesopotamic literature.  
> (4) The epic of Gilgamesh narrates the story of the king of Uruk, his friendship with Enkidu and the quest for immortality after the latter's death.  
> (5) There are a lot of stories about Kathleen Battle's diva antics and problems with other singers, conductors and directors. One of the most famous anecdotes around her is having the soprano, in her way from or to the opera house calling to her agent, who had to call the limousine company, who had to call her driver in order to turn down the cooling air because she woulnd't do it directly.  
> (6) Less famous than Florence Foster Jenkins, Sari Bunchuk Wontner is, like her, a case of millionaire, amateur terrible soprano who taught herself singing. She hired orchestras, singers and conductors in order to live her dream and stage performances at her home in Las Vegas. This is the result of one of these performances: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bg1EnmIdugY. She died in 1981 while on vacation in the Caribbean, after falling overboard from her husband's yacht.
> 
> Well, hope you enjoyed. Feel free to comment, criticise, etc. Until the next one!


	37. Chto nasha zhizn’? Igra!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An invitation to dinner (and nothing else)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there goes chapter 37. I am very much alive, but confined like half of Europe right now. So maybe once this chapter has been written the next ones will arrive earlier. As usual, remember this is a fictional story written by someone who has not English as her first language. With that, enjoy. More notes at the end!

**XXXVII**  
**Chto nasha zhizn’? Igra!**

_Chto nasha zhizn’? Igra!_  
_Dobro i zlo odni mechtï!_  
_Trud, chestnost skazki dlya bab’ya!_  
_Kto prav, kto schastliv zdes’ druz’ya?_  
_Sevodnya tï, a zavtra ya!_  
_Tak bros’tye zhe bor’bu,_  
_lovitye mig udachi!_  
_Pust’ neudachnik plachet,_  
_klyanya, klyanya svoyu sud’bu!_

(What is our life? A game!  
Good and evil are just dreams!  
Endeavour and integrity are just oldwives’ tales!  
Who’s right, who’s happy here, my friends?  
Today it’s you, and tomorrow me!  
So just give up the struggle,  
grasp the lucky moment!  
Let the loser weep,  
cursing, cursing his fate!)  
TCHAIKOVSKY, The Queen of Spades, Act III

“Beware of him; they say he could steal four horseshoes while the animal is still running”.

  
“That’s extremely good, Alexis”

  
“But not mine I must admit. A writer from his country said so”

  
“Whatever. It’s a good quote anyway, Alexis, I would almost wish someone wrote that about me. Well, then he’ll maybe find we are stealing the horse first”, he added with a smile; the little phrase amused him. People had said that he would seduce a chair, but it wasn’t the same. Alexis didn’t return the smile. He was as loyal as one could wish, but cold as ice.

  
The brief conversation with his secretary preceded his meeting with the Spanish Prime Minister, the day after the European Elections. Waiting on the stairs giving to the courtyard, he smiled to the press, giving them a side look. At the beginning of his tenure, he barely looked at that little crowd, as if he was in a different dimension. He wanted to leave that very clear, no more chats over a mojito at the press room – which he had wanted to relocate, unsuccessfully -; Hollande had done that, and they had ripped him to parts anyway. Is not that his opinion had changed that much about French media but he was in the mood of smiling, because once more he had defied their predictions. They couldn’t, still, totally grasp his personality.

  
It was funny to read the same editorialists who predicted a crushing defeat for his party, or rather for him – everything is personalized – writing now that he is the moral winner of this election. Yes, Le Pen’s party has the first place, just like in 2014, but the difference was minimal – less than 1% - and his party, no matter the inexperience and a campaign that didn’t go smoothly enough, would have the same number of seats at the European Parliament. As much as she smiled in public and demanded – as was customary in her – the dissolution of the National Assembly, Le Pen didn’t obtain the expected result. Besides, no one wanted them near; not even those weird guys from VOX. As for the rest of the parties in the opposition… Emmanuel thought of Mélenchon, who still the other day was bragging about forcing him to resign because of what he expected would be a crushing defeat. It was very clear that he had succeeded in turning this election in his favour, in spite of not arriving the first. They talk often of sweet defeats, and Emmanuel, so accustomed to success – it was not that during his life he had not experienced setbacks, but he rarely allowed showing how they affected. So he smiled at the press, and even gave them a little wink. He knew several individuals in that group would consider that as a provocation. He definitely loved to escape to their categories. That’s the first thing he did whenever someone wanted to put him on a box: try to be outside it.

  
Pedro Sánchez’s car crossed the gates and stopped in front of the stairs. He stepped down the stairs, as the Republican Guard saluted the Prime Minister as protocol demanded. Since he was only a head of government and not a head of State, Sánchez had right to less guards saluting him and, of course, there was no music, only the sound of cameras. They tapped each other backs, in a weird dominance game hidden under not entirely feigned cordiality. Anyway, this was a working dinner, not an official visit; with Italy’s situation – even after the diplomatic row was over between him and Conte’s government – he wanted to test if Spain would be a substitute for the third wheel of the Franco-German axis of the EU. Maybe this could work, maybe he’ll have to find other, more reliable allies, time would tell. Spain’s parliamentary system was showing its limits given to the apparent incapacity of parties to form coalitions. And Sánchez, on his hand, had been designed a sort of ambassador for the socialist group in the European Parliament. They wanted the French president as an ally against the EPP. The informal meeting next day in Brussels would set the basement for the next commission, and everyone wanted to have their own candidate as the visible head of the European Union.

  
Under all the smiles and cordial handshakes the two men, apparently so similar, under all that cordiality, there was distrust on both sides. But sometimes it was better that way; less painful, if one wanted to call it like that. He guided the Spanish Prime Minister to the Salon des Portraits, where the table had been disposed. Brigitte had renovated the decoration and in most halls of the palace contemporary paintings and furniture were mixed with the wooden panels in white and gold. The room was named after the portraits on the wall, those of the Heads of State contemporaries of Napoleon III. Queen Victoria, the Austrian emperor Franz-Joseph, tsar Nicholas I, Pope Pius IX and the king of Italy, Vittorio Emmanuele, looked down at their temporary guests. This had been the room where the cabinet was reunited under the last years of the Fourth Republic, and before that, it served the same purpose for Louis Napoléon, later Napoleon III. And even earlier it was Napoleon I's bureau, and, before that, it had been Madame Pompadour's concert room. The windows gave to the gardens, and at this hour sunlight hit the curtains. This was a room fit to held informal dinners with a reduced number of guests. This evening, he was alone with Mr. Sánchez.

  
“So, how are these pacts going?” Emmanuel said with a smile. But he was impatient. Stability was extremely important for him, and he didn’t need another general election in the neighbouring country again.

  
“Badly enough since Mr. Iglesias asks for too much. And there’s the problem with Rivera…”

  
Ah, yes. Emmanuel’s mind was suddenly back two years ago, few days after his election, in his first interview as President with the former Spanish Prime Minister Mariano Rajoy. One of the first things press had asked him was his opinion on Mr. Rivera. He had laughed. People in Spain had learnt to know him as the French Rivera, after the leader of the liberal party Ciudadanos. A sort of fresh-faced liberal who had written such a psychopathic introduction to the Spanish version of Revolution that he had felt forced to correct it, taking out part of its exaggerated praise.

  
Almost immediately and as he impressed the World during the first year of his presidency, the Spanish politician started to imitate the French President, and everyone started to nickname him the Spanish Macron, in mockery. Now Mr. Rivera’s party had done pacts with the Spanish equivalent of Le Pen’s party and were persona non grata for him and En Marche. He had even said so publicly, to Mr. Rivera’s embarrassment.

  
“He already ruined the possibility of a pact before”, Sánchez said, with a frown.

  
“So it’s new elections again?” the dinner was being served. It had been a nice day, it still was, they could have shared a coffee in the façade giving to the garden, the place where he has often sit with certain guests, like Zuckerberg… Or Justin. Visits during which Nemo is often out there frolicking in the grass. But even if Mr. Sánchez has an adopted dog, too, having Nemo here would seem inappropriate, and the dog is resting in a room next to Brigitte’s bureau. Probably.

  
“No. We have still time… At least I hope not” Mr. Sánchez cleared his troath. “About the European commision…”

  
“You mean if my group would back your candidate.”

  
“Yes”

  
“Spitzenkandidaten must die” he held his knife in the air. “Metaphorically of course”

  
“That’s very blunt, I must say, even metaphorically.”

  
“And probably Weber is going to yell at me like he did the last time. Oh, not in my face of course, but behind my back. I am a dictator, and so forth and so on, and I am committing a crime against democracy by opposing to this system. Metaphorically, of course. We should bring him a yellow vest as a gift. At least them call me dictator in the open, and they are sincere on top of that” Emmanuel did a pause “You aren’t going to agree with the EPP, are you?”

  
“About the dictator thing? Not of course, we have had one of these until relatively recent times in my country. Even so I have people calling me a squatter. After obtaining confidence of the parliament and winning the elections. I guess we all have some of these guys in our countries”.

  
“No you don’t and it’s better for you. And, as for dear Manfred and the EPP, you are not of his opinion… “

  
“What do you think?” Sánchez said, amused. “I’m very much eager to give these dinosaurs their due” he took a crumb of bread “No offense to Angela, of course”.

  
“Exactly. Weber can say whatever he wants about democracy, especially with his little club – no offence to Angela, of course - always looking the other side when it’s question of Orban And besides, it was his group, but not only his group”, Emmanuel went on as Sánchez looked away “the one who killed my proposal of transnational lists because they didn’t want to leave go their power. So much for Weber’s concept of democracy”.

“So this is your way to avenge your transnational lists?”

  
“Oh, no, not at all, Pedro” Emmanuel smiled and gave him a wink. “You know, I really think Verstager is the future; she’s impressive and she’s a woman, we can agree that it’s time for a woman being president of the European Commission. But being pragmatic I know my group can’t impose her as candidate to the presidency, and I think we can agree that Weber is the past, even before he had time to be the present”

  
“You are very right. Then I guess this means you are with us, and that you’ll make Angela reasonable about this. She’s being more vulnerable these times and she’s surely mellowing. On top of that, there’s that special relationship of yours”

  
“I am not that sure about the last bit lately” Emmanuel said caressing his own chin. Merkel’s passion for preserving the status quo was annoying him in extreme these days, or later these last two years. Their relationship was under a strain and he was sure it would get worse, as he became more and more impatient and she mor fragile. “But I’ll try”.  
Sánchez looked around the room, and finally his eyes fell on the carpet. A modern piece, of course, since Brigitte adored the combination of the antique decorations in the walls and modern artworks; he did love that contrast, too.

  
“Interesting carpet, very colourful. I should pick some of these for La Moncloa, maybe. All the palace is so…”

  
“Impersonal. Yes, it’s the problem with the private suite here too. This” he said pointing at their surroundings “has a personality, but it’s mostly like living in a museum. A not very popular one, actually”

  
“Moncloa doesn’t arrive even to that. Although the cellar outside the gardens is curious enough”.

  
“I didn’t have the time to appreciate it when I visited Madrid, even if I have good memories of your city”, Emmanuel said, almost to himself. It was almost like he could smell that pillow again and feel the heat of the – still awake – city coming from outside Elena’s bedroom.

  
“Really? Then I hope you can come again, sooner or later. La Moncloa may have its charms but the reality is the main building itself is a…”

  
“Neo-herrerian abomination” Sánchez looked at him, surprised he even knew what neo-herrerian style was. “A friend of mine defined your presidential palace in that same words once. Maybe I am being a bit rude…”

  
“No, no. It’s an abomination, really. Its main advantage is having the original gardens and being outside the city, in fact that’s why it was picked as the residence of Spanish presid… eh… Prime Ministers”, he corrected himself. Sánchez talked French too, but his English was better and sometimes forgot that the title given to Spain’s head of government was often translated as Prime Minister even if they were called Presidents in their own country. “It should have been a palace in the centre of the city, but once, just during the transition to democracy, a guy from the secret service walked in Prime Minister Suárez’s bureau and showed him a photo of his back taken from the building across the street. This is why we ended there. It’s not a happy place”.

  
“Neither is the Élysée”, the French President said, in a mournful tone.

***

He said goodbye to Sánchez at the stairs, as sun was setting in Paris. Next day they’ll see again each other, in Brussels. He put a hand inside the pocket of his trousers as the Spanish Prime Minister’s car abandoned the courtyard. Sánchez was reassured and he wouldn’t be a problem during the next months. He was under his spell, he was convinced of it.

  
But he had been convinced of having Trump under his spell once, too.

  
“Well, how did that go?” Alexis emerged from the corridor once he came back inside.

  
“I think we’ll steal that horse he’s riding”, Emmanuel replied. “Now we have time; if this plan fails, we’ll have another in store. All depends on what Angela does with her party later”.

  
“And what if that doesn’t work? Your arrangement with the socialists, I mean”.

  
“Then there’s Ushi”, Emmanuel whispered. “A woman presiding, just like I wanted. Imagine that”.

  
Alexis did something unusual in him. He laughed.

  
“Von Der Leyen? Merkel would agree, probably. It would be a good consensual option – except for the socialists, maybe -. But you are always saying that Verstager is the future”.

  
“The immediate future, no doubt. And she could be vice-president, I’ll arrange that whatever the options are” he tapped gently Alexis’ shoulder “But as for _the_ future… That’s _me_ , dear friend”.

  
And with a smile, he ran up the Murat staircase, on the way to the second floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may notice, the chapter had little if not any opera or cultural references, only political ones...  
> Having them in the Hall of Portraits was a liberty I took, since, from the very short video of Sánchez visiting the French President in may 2019 I couldn't deduce the location of the room where they had dinner. So I went with this one.  
> Please bee free to comment and criticise. And until the next chapter that will be, I hope, written sooner than this one.


	38. Un nido di memorie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of long train travels (and what awaits at the end)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And yet another chapter. Seems time in isolation will bring its fruits as far as writing is concerned.  
> If not, the usual disclaimers: this is a fictional story and English is not my first language. Opera references are clarified in the final notes.  
> I must confess, however, that this one is not precisely uplifting. But nevertheless... Enjoy.

**XXXVIII**

**Un nido di memorie**

_Ma non per dirvi come pria_  
 _“Le lacrime che noi versiam son false!_  
 _Degli spasimi e dei nostri martir_  
 _Non allarmatevi!” No. No._  
 _L’autore ha cercato invece pingervi_  
 _Uno squarcio di vita._  
 _Egli ha per massima sol che l’artista_  
 _È un uom, e che per gli uomini_  
 _Scrivere ei debe. Ed al vero ispriavisi._  
 _Un nido di memorie in fondo all’anima_  
 _Cantava un giorno, ed ei con vere lacrime_  
 _Scrisse, e i singhiozzi il tempo gli battevono!_  
(But not, as in the past, to reassure you  
saying: “The tears we shed are false,  
so do not be alarmed by our agonies  
or violence!” No! No!  
Our author has endeavoured, rather,  
to paint for you a slice of life,  
his only maxim being that the artist  
is a human being, and he must write for human beings  
Truth is his inspiration.  
deep-embedded memories stirred one day  
within his heart; and with real tears  
He wrote, and marked the time with sighs!  
LEONCAVALLO, Pagliacci, Prologue (1).

Her telephone was ringing when she entered the dressing room, but Elena ignored it because it wasn’t the moment to answer a call. She had left the scene in a rush, as the libretto required, after being menaced by her husband in fiction, Canio; the tenor was confronting another of his great moments of the evening, singing one of the better known arias in the repertoire, Vesti la giubba. It was a probing night for him, since he had starred in the two operas performed that evening, _Cavalleria rusticana_ and _Pagliacci_ (2), the – usually - inseparable duo; she only appeared in the second one. But still, she had to change her dress for the second act, and her make up, and even her hairstyle, and time was short. A screen in the dressing room reproduced the internal video system and allowed her to follow the opera meanwhile, but she listened distractedly as the tenor sang about the sorrows of artists who have to keep smiling and entertain even when their hearts are shattered. Apart from that relatable feeling, she disliked the character himself, a jealous man who would end the opera as a murderer. But apparently the public's sympathies lied with him and not with Nedda, her character and Canio's unfaithful wife. And who would want to be faithful to someone like Canio, she said to herself as she took off the flower-patterned, designed after the fashion of the 1940s dress Nedda was wearing during Act I. The humble dress of a member of a troupe of strolling players, about to perform for the last time. But Nedda didn't know it, and neither did the _public_ actually the chorus - to be witness of her murder.

There was a knock at the door.

“Elena, are you decent?” after all these years together, and not being really attracted to women – at least not to her – Chus always made the same question. She slided behind the room divider, which was useful if she had to receive someone at the dressing room while she changed costumes.

“Sort of, get in” she yelled “And tell the make up artist I need her right now!”

“She's already here”.

“Oh, thank God”.

She emerged from behind the divider, dressed as Colombina and limping on, since one of her red shoes was nowhere to be found. The soprano looked around while she sat on the little stool next to the desk, and finally found it under it. She caressed the white petals of the lilies that had been sent that morning; in the card there was nothing written but the traditional In bocca al lupo, but there was no need of more information. Chus entered, followed by the make up artist. There was a round of applause for the tenor, who had just finished his aria, with isolated petitions for an encore.

“Have they no mercy? He just recovered from his cold”, Elena said as the white powder was applied on her face. There was another call, and again the soprano ignored her mobile phone without even looking at the screen; whoever was calling had no manners and no idea of her schedule. She gave a side look to her own reflection. The make up artist was transforming her in a cheap version of the old stock character. That was the intention; her dress was designed to look tacky and faded, with lacking sequins in the corset, the scene costume of a third rate actress who wanted to escape from the harshness of an errant troupe; the fake disarray of the dress was carefully calculated. The make up artist applied rouge in her cheeks so she looked like the cheap version of a porcelain doll and added a beauty mark with her pencil.

“You know they don't”, Chus said, cynically. His usual mood these days, from the moment Anne had left abruptly, with a letter full of vague apologies. Mrs. Blackwood had said that she would send someone else and that familiar matters had weighted in Anne's decision. “The public is a beast hard to please”

“Please be quiet for a moment, Madame Mendieta”, the make up artist said before she had time to answer something to Chus' outburst “I must apply the lipstick. It must dry, so stay still, please, Madame”.

Elena kept quiet as the woman carefully applied the red, bright lipstick with a brush, applying it in heart shape. On the screen, the Intermezzo had started to sound, opening in a menacing tone which soon became melancholically and deprived of any hope. She closed her eyes as she listened as the orchestra remembered the musical theme introduced in the prologue. Remember, that music said, behind their masks, players are human beings and that the public was about to see was a slice of life, full of real feelings and suffering. Despite the effectiveness of the play-within-a-play in the second act – apparently inspired by some trial where the composer´s father, a judge, was the presiding magistrate - this wasn't Elena's favourite opera (3). There was something that gripped her heart there, and not in a good way (4).

“Perfect, Madame, you are ready”, the make up artist said as Elena got up. The soprano checked herself at the mirror. Yes, it was good enough. The intermezzo had ended and the chorus which opened the second act started.

“Can you please take a look at my zipper, it's correctly up?”, she asked Chus before exiting the dressing room.

“It's OK, I don't think your dress will fall in the middle of the pantomime” the telephone rang again. “Can't you answer or put that thing down?”

As Elena adjusted her neckline and prepared to run to the stage, she turned her head a last time. With evident exasperation, she took it and answered.

“Very well then, I hope this is important”, she said as one member of the staff rushed to her door. She was due to be on stage in the next two minutes. It was then when Chus saw her become pale, even paler than the white powder in her face, but this lasted a second because she gave him her back. “When?”, she asked, with a strangled voice “Yes, I'll be there as soon as possible”. Her hand opened and the phone fell to the floor; Chus saw her straightening her shoulders and heading to the stage. The community manager picked the device – he checked the screen, that now showed a little crack in its bottom - from the floor accidentally activating the speakers; the call had not ended yet.

“Elena?” a female, sobbing voice he recognized as one of Elena's sisters said. He didn't remember if the voice belonged to Marta or Isabel.

“She's no longer here, she had to go in stage”

“Oh, God, I had forgotten...” another sob strangled her voice. Chus waved at the second tenor who played Beppe/Arlecchino, also rushing to the stage, ready for his great moment; being always fond of a little gossip, the singer slowed his pace suddenly. “I should have waited to tell her the news...”

Elena was already on the stage, performing a sort of comic number. A big, bright smile in her face, she was getting the little table ready, but every time she tried to get the tablecloth ready it fell short. It was part of the staging: the singer playing the poor, strolling artist. The chorus laughed as she sang, with a wink dedicated to the public:

_Pagliaccio, mio marito,_   
_a tarda notte sol ritornerà._

In spite of the impeding tragedy, she was legitimately funny in that part of the opera, Chus said to himself.

“It's papa.”, the sobbing woman in the other side of the line said, as Chus and the tenor exchanged a look; there was almost no need to complete that sentence “Last night he had a stroke and we rushed him to the hospital. There’s the possibility he won't make it; I had forgotten she had to sing today...” her voice disolved in an incoherent mess of sobs. For the sake of delicacy, Chus turned off the speaker before answering, hoping he wasn't adressing to the wrong sister. The second tenor left, downhearted no doubt, but Chus saw him exchanging some words with a stage hand, who looked in the direction of the stage, distressed. Soon the whole opera house would know. Elena wouldn't like that. It was maybe good intentioned, but she wouldn't like.

“Listen, Isabel... I'm sorry, Marta. We'll get into the first fligth we could get. She would be there in time. I promise you. She will be there. I am sorry, deeply sorry, believe me.” he realized he was talking like Elena's father was already dead, but honestly, there was any hope left? When he ended the call he realized, too, that making that promise had been a mistake.

***

  
_“Good night, my dear. Alphonse told me about your father…And I thought I should make another exception, like the last time… Even if I don’t know if I am disturbing you”_

“You don’t disturb me. I had hoped he would tell you. Keep talking to me, please. It’s a long trip to Madrid, and even if I tried, I can’t’ read, I can’t have a conversation, I can’t think. So keep talking to me, keep talking as long as you can… if that’s not a problem for you”.

_“A long trip to Madrid… But where are you, I thought you’ll try to get in the first flight”_

“And that was our intention but go figure; there was no available flight until tomorrow in the morning. So we caught the last night train from Lisbon; we were lucky to get into the station in time. We’ll arrive there in the morning; I am so afraid, so afraid of losing him, so afraid of not being there in time to say goodbye”, she whispered as she looked through the window, trying to control herself, trying to not tear up. The train ran in the night, and here and there one could see the lights of distant towns, and little less. There was nothing to see out there but darkness; Elena loved trains, she always had done, and it was not the first time she took that line, which had the evocative name of _Lusitania_ (5) but now every minute seemed to be eternal and her loneliness unbearable. There were few passengers in that night train and Chus had left his seat for the cafeteria; even so, she kept her voice very low; it was like Emmanuel’s voice at the other side of the line was everything she had left.

_“It’s a shame you weren’t in France, I could have fixed that for you”_ he said, apparently in all seriousness. Something told her that he would have, indeed, tried to help her in that way.

“Would you send a Falcon to pick me up? Would you ask my president for his own plane? Imagine the scandal if that happened. No, Emmanuel. Thank you anyway…” she took a breath “you can’t fix that already, you never were meant to fix everything. Where are you? Keep talking, please”

“ _Alone in my bureau; working of course, I have several dossiers on the table, probably I’ll be there until three o’clock. But they can wait. Do you know anything new about your father?_ ”

“No… my sister told me she would call if something new happened. I have no news, good or bad” she curled in her seat, wanting to disappear “Maybe it has already happened and they are hesitating… maybe…”

_“Elena, please. They would have called you already. But I see I shouldn’t be occupying you with my call then, in case they do…This is going to sound common talk, but maybe I know what you are feeling_ ”

“No, no. Keep talking. Keep talking a little more. Was that about your grandmother?”

There was an instant of hesitation; time, it’s said, heals everything, but it seemed that the death of his adored grandmother Manette, was still a fresh wound in his soul. That was one of the things he kept for himself, as Olga still kept for herself whatever Mrs. Blackwood told her about the death of her father – Elena can imagine the manager had said something of the style of the man being better dead than with his disease, but she couldn’t be sure after all -; that was more intimate than lying asleep on a bed at her side, even more intimate than playing piano for her. Would her own wounds heal, if (or rather, when) her father would die?

“ _I said maybe… I can’t measure your sorrow, Elena, everyone carry their own in a different way. But I do remember the day when my mother called me six years ago_ ” his voice had a particular intonation there. Vulnerable. “ _I could say goodbye at least_ ”

She waited for more details, but it seemed he was unwilling to say more about that. Then he added:

“ _And if the worst happens… I know you’ll need consolation, and comfort, and I’ll be there if you want to, naturally if you agree. Only if you agree. We’ll add more exceptions to the list, and Alphonse will be furious, possibly rightly so_ ” there was a short silence, and finally he said “ _No, not if the worst happens. I’ll be there if you want to, Elena”_ another pause _“But this isn’t the time to talk about me, dear_ ”

  
She opened her eyes again. The train slowed its pace arriving to a curve; there was a train station in the middle of nowhere, the lights on but no one in the platforms; the soprano didn’t manage in time to read the name of the town, and the train didn’t stop there. How many towns like that awaited in her way to Madrid? Asleep, left behind, with semi abandoned – if anything – stations where trains didn’t’ stop anymore. The lamps in the platforms projected weird shadows on the buildings. There was no town in sight; probably it was one or two kilometres away. After leaving the deserted station behind, the train recovered speed, shacking a bit too much for her taste.

“I remember the dead leaves”

“ _The dead leaves_?”

  
“It’s probably one of my first memories. The dead leaves. There was…there is a park at the end of my street. It’s not very clean right now, and it wasn’t very clean back then. That’s where I learnt to walk. My father holding my hand as I picked little dead leaves from the floor. It was also one of my first words, or so he used to tell me. _Hojitas_.” she smiled to herself. Dead leaves were the cleanest thing one could find there, other things were way worse. There was a photo of these days, she with a little pink coat and looking with a frown at the camera. “He was unemployed these years”.

“ _I bet you were a little devil_ ” there was that unexpected touch of levity, surprisingly welcome. An incredible as may seem, she emitted a little chuckle.

  
“You are right. When I was three years old I locked myself in the bathroom. Dad had to disassemble the door. My mother was completely hysterical and she slapped me twice. Another time… That time I took a pen and started to draw flowers on my skin. I think I was four… They needed to bath me four times until all that ink was out from my body. I think I still can hear my father laughing with his friends. _She’s an artist, what we can do_ , he would say.”

“ _And to think I got scolded every time I pursued a lizard!_ ” was his answer. Congratulations, she thought, he had succeeded in bringing the fondest memories she had of her father; is not that she didn’t felt worried or sad about the stroke, but thinking about all these funny stories of her childhood – and of his patience whenever she made a mess – made her felt better. She also imagined little Emmanuel running to catch a lizard, curls in disarray. “ _He seems to be a good man, Elena_.”

“He is. My father was the one who always believed in my career, even when it seemed an extravagant idea to become an opera singer, me, the roundsman’s daughter. He started to collect everything I sang. When my siblings went there and looked for a reasonable job I was a cashier singing scales, the black sheep of the family”

“ _That’s relatable, the part about being the black sheep of the family_ ”

She had heard things about the relationship he had with his parents and siblings – and even with his teenager half brother – but she didn’t know to what extent the rumours about it being tense or cold were true. This was another thing that he kept for himself. A family full of doctors that suddenly had a politician among them. Like her, he had refused to follow the path that was expected and looked for his own destiny, his own life.

“ When I started all over again, because… Because Carmen told me my technique was imperfect, and I should learn to sing again…” the soprano went on “ That first night I cried with rage, I was disperate, I thought I would drop everything and give up”

“ _But he encouraged you_ ”, he completed.

“He did. And he warned me, _If you drop everything now, you’ll be supremely unhappy and I won’t forgive you because of that_. Without him, I would have abandoned, no doubt”. And without Carmen, of course. She missed her, as much as she used to be annoyed at her constant presence. “I am so afraid, Emmanuel” Afraid of death, afraid of a world where her father no longer existed.

“ _You know I can't tell you everything will go all right, my dear. I would love to say so but it's not realist, and you know it. But whatever happens..._ ”

“I know” she bit her bottom lip and stirred up. Where were they now? Near the border already? She didn't know, having not memorized the stops between Lisbon and Madrid; the train siren broke the silence, howling in the night.

“ _Whatever happens remember I'm here_ ” it sounded conventional but Elena believed him, or wanted to.

Chus was back on the railway car, with two plastic coffee cups. She mentally cursed him and his two gobelets.

“I will. Now I have to leave you, I am not...”

“Oh, you can go on talking, you two” Chus said, sitting and sipping his coffee. He gave the other cup to the soprano. “I am not here, and not listening of course” he put his earphones on and dedicated his attention to the movie shown on the screen, Princess Diaries 2 of all the possible things. Was this train frozen in time? For the second time since their conversation had started, Elena couldn't help but chuckle.

“ _Who was that_?”

“My community manager; he insist we can go on with our little talk, but maybe is better not to...”

“ _Of course my dear, I told you I'll leave the line so you could keep receiving news from your family. I hope they are good. I'll call you again_ ”

“You will?”

“ _Yes I'll do. Good night my dear, and try to sleep at least_ ”

***

Chamartín train station was already busy when Elena and Chus arrived early in the morning. People who lived outside Madrid but worked in the city emerged from the short discance trains and went directly into the underground. The soprano had received another call during the night, this one from Rafael; there were no news, good or bad, but she should better rush. As they crossed the platform in direction to the elevator – she prefered to take a taxi -, anguish dominated her. She heard Chus answering a phone call, but didn't listen to his words.

  
“Please calm down, Elena”, Chus said as she almost crashed against the automatic doors that sepparated the platform from the elevator. “Wait a mo...”

  
She could have chosen the escalators but these were very busy at this hour of the day, and besides, she had had a bad experience with one of these one. Although she had had a bad experience with automatic sliding glass doors too, in her childhood, in ther little devil period, in that same station. Elena politely ignored him, as they both were crushed by the little crowd of passengers reunited in the elevator. The main concourse was full of cafeterias, shops and kiosks. There was even a toy store next to the exit. But she ignored all of this, ignored even Chus calling for her; she was focused in the gate where the taxis awaited.

  
“Elena, wait!”

  
The soprano turned her head, annoyed, but since she was still walking at maximum speed, she didn't see there was someone in her way. Someone who was kind enough to stop her in her fall.

  
“Oh, excuse me...”

  
Someone who was wearing a tear shaped pendant and assorted earrings, she realized when she raised her head. Her lips trembled.

  
“This is what I was trying to tell you, she has come to pick us up and...” Chus said, apparently far away.

  
“Carmen”. The manager's hands were in her shoulders now. She was wearing a yellow sweater and a grey pencil skirt, with black boots.

  
“Yes, my dear girl. Come, I'll take you to the hospital right now, if you want”.

  
“Carmen” she answered. And without giving a damn about the people coming and going from the shops, the cafés or the platforms, she surrounded the woman she considered as a second mother with her arms and she cried with a mix of relief and utter disperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) This particular prologue is considered as the "manifesto" of Verismo, with operas that were more close to daily life and "reality". Mascagni, Leoncavallo or Giordano are three of the members of that "movement" also known as "la giovane scuola". Pay attention to how Giuseppe Taddei, example given, sings the part that gives its name to this chapter. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2tDQdu3pRs  
> (2) Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana and Leoncavallo's Pagliacci are so often performed together that it's usual to refer to them, at least in the Anglophone world, as Cav & Pag.  
> (3) Leoncavallo always said that the criminal investigation presided by his father was the source behind Pagliacci. The thing is he was accused of plagiarism by Catulle Mendès since his play La femme de Tabarin shared some common themes with the libretto (there's a play within a play and a performer murders his wife). Leoncavallo pledged ignorance of Mendes play and evidence was never enough to certify the plagiarism even if the lawsuit was dropped. There's still the possibility that Leoncavallo had seen the play while he was in Paris.  
> (4) This is (part of) the play whitin the play. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXTdN8FnEDQ  
> Ah, and for the Intermezzo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KnWr4PwsdZU  
> (5) Of course the Lusitania is a real thing and every night connects Madrid and Lisbon. Here's a little old video (in Spanish) about this night train: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z6pwAMHziec
> 
> Well, as usual, this was all. I expect it wasn't too depressing. Feel free to comment and criticise. And until the next one! :)


	39. Gloire immortelle de nos aïeux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of commemorations and receiving hatred online.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual: English is not my first language. Forgive me for my mispellings. And... I like to have real details added, but you always should remember the story is fictional, and that my characters, even if based in real people - most of them, anyway- , are fictional too. I try to make them human and flawed - and with their own opinions -, and I hope I am succeeding, and I am trying to give all the fic certain coherence - this is more difficult- but never take this too seriously. Is... just me having fun with words. And I hope you have fun reading them, too. With that, enjoy.

**XXXIX**   
**Gloire immortelle de nos aïeux**

_Gloire immortelle_   
_de nos aïeux,_   
_sois-nous fidèle,_   
_mourons comme eux !_   
_Et sous ton aile,_   
_soldats vainqueurs,_   
_dirige nos pas, enflamme nos coeurs !_   
_Pour toi, mère patrie,_   
_affrontant le sort,_   
_tes fils, l’âme aguerrie,_   
_ont bravé la mort !_   
_Ta voix sainte nous crie :_   
_en avant, soldats !_   
_Le fer à la main, courez aux combats !_

(Immortal glory  
of our ancestors,  
be loyal to us,  
let’s die as they did!  
And under your protection,  
as victorious soldiers,  
direct our steps, kindle our hearts!  
For you, fatherland,  
defying Fate,  
your warlike sons  
have faced death!  
Your holy voice shouts to us:  
forward, soldiers!  
Sword in hand, rush into the fray!)

GOUNOD, Faust, Soldiers chorus from Act IV

**June**

  
Glenn Miller's _In the mood_ was difficult to resist, but this was a solemn occasion and his detractors would probably made a fuss of it, so Justin decided to concentrate in Bettel's little talk instead of following his first instinct, which would have lead him to move his head and feet at the rhythm of the music played by the orchestra on stage, which had been preceded by a medley ending in that famous march from The bridge on the River Kwai. He looked with a certain envy to some of the military officers seated in the first row of chairs, who clearly didn’t have the same worries about breaches in the protocol and were moving their bodies at the rhythm of Miller’s piece. In this 75th anniversary of the D-Day (1), as the head of government of one of the Allied Nations, better not to fall in the trap. He had enough bad press lately inside and outside his country. And besides, he was due to intervene as an actor in this ceremony, too. It had been a good idea, to involve world leaders in the event, and that going beyond greeting some of the last veterans still alive. On his lap, the Prime Minister had a leather folder with a text inside, the one he was supposed to read before the public; the letter from Col. Cecil Merritt (2), the first Canadian awarded the Victoria Cross in WWII. He couldn't say he was nervous, but he was definitely tense. Surrendering to the appeal of Miller's music could have helped, perhaps, but it would look inadequate. Sitting on the extreme of the first row, he was quite far from Emmanuel, who had his place next to Theresa May. British, French and Americans – Trump and Melania were there, of course – sit together, as the three great allied nations involved in the celebration. The Russians were not present, but they were supposed to celebrate a great parade next year, or something of that kind. No one would have liked to have Putin there, though. Or so he believed; possibly Trump wouldn't be that disgusted. It was curious but even Angela Merkel was seated nearest to the Queen – Her Majesty's seat was empty for now, but she would arrive soon - than he was. How did the German chancellor feel? It was about reconciliation, Angela had said; the presenter had used these same words. And Emmanuel... He also held a folder in his hand. Like every leader from an allied country, he was supposed to have his role in the show.

  
“Whose is that letter you are going to read from?”, he had asked the Frenchman before the ceremony started, after they greeted each other. Later, they would probably pose for that photo that had become a ritual in Spring 2017: Bettel, Michel, Emmanuel and himself. The francophone quartett at the heart of NATO. The President's eyes were fixated in the piece of paper, while he made some anotations with a blue pen; Justin was sure he had memorized the words earlier.

  
“The last letter of a resistance fighter, moments before his execution” the President made a pause, caressed the sheet of paper like he could bring some consolation to that individual killed seventy-five years ago, closed the folder “I'm afraid is rather some passages from it, but I picked the adequate ones. Actually the original was lost, but the text circulated, even here. His name was Henri, Henri Fertet. He wrote to his parents that, even if he did it for France, it was extremely harsh to die. He was sixteen” (3).

  
Against his will, Justin shuddered. Was he already rehearsing the tone he would use when he would be on stage? It was extremely effective, probably due to the way in which these words were pronounced, as if they contained all the desolation in the world. To die so young! How many Henris, in how many countries, had existed during WWII, and existed right now. How many of them couldn't even write a final letter. You could imagine the young boy, you almost could watch over his shoulder, as he wrote his last farewell to this world.

  
“It's curious how we are always meeting for commemorations of horrible things.” he finally said looking at the sea.

  
“Except for the summits, Justin” Emmanuel replied “And personally I don't think the D-Day was a horrible thing” Justin had opened his mouth to reply something about how horrid war is but the Frenchman talked before he had an opportunity “I know, I know. War. It's pure shit, but even so you can't remove the nazis asking them politely, and probably the veterans present here would agree with both things; war is horrible, beating Nazis is... gratifying” he smiled “How are you doing, Justin?”

  
“Surviving, like everyone else. Things have been harsh in Canada too”

  
“I know it, Justin”, and he said no more. No need, either. Maybe he was thinking about the Lavalin affair, maybe he was not. Elections would be held on October and Justin was feeling, for the first time, unsure about the outcome. Would he be re-elected? Would he lost his majority? He had even had his own share of yellow vests, inspired by their French counterparts, even if less numerous and not so annoying. Or violent. “Like for everyone else”.

  
For he was sure he was thinking about 2022, too, whatever his words in public were.

  
The president stood up and pressed his shoulder with his long, stronger than it looked, hand. Did he thought this brought a sort of consolation? It was weird, to feel like this, but when he touched him he felt warmer, better. Then he tapped his back, before pressing the folder against his heart and going away to talk briefly with Theresa May. She had resigned days ago, and her decision would be effective two days after the commemoration. Dressed in green, she looked liberated, happier than ever in the last two years. She greeted the French president with a smile; there was an individual that dind't care for next elections. Unlike everyone else. Mrs. May made a comment and Emmanuel laughed mischievously, his fingers running through his hair. Absurd as may seemed, Justin's attention was attracted by that indomitable swirl on the other man's head; there was that impulse of trying to tame it himself.

  
Seemed like a bad screenplay, to have this, as far as he knew, unrequited crush on a man, and a fellow leader on top of all that. Emmanuel always talked and behaved like a friend when they were together, plus, he was of that kind of people who seemed fond of invade personal space, at least with his hands, which where often on his shoulders or his cheeks whenever they met. Not that Justin was bothered about that trait. But, he doubted he ever had the same kind of fantasies that, even agaisnt his will, assaulted him now and then. And he wasn't going to ask him about that.

  
 _So he has seduced you_. François Hollande, who kept writing to him even if he did it seldom, had his opinion settled on the affair. _He seduces you and either stabs you in the back or dumps you. He's like that. That's how he's made. You'll see. Oh, you'll see. Be careful, Justin_.

  
There was, no doubt, bitterness there, something really personal between the two men, that went beyond the younger one conquering the presidential palace. François's side was often told, the tale of the president betrayed by that charismatic young man he had brought with him and for whom he had had the affection of a father. Now that he thought about it, Emmanuel never had told him his side of the story, which, according to another source, had to do with François's reaction to the death of his then secretary's beloved grandmother. Whatever the intentions behind François's warning really were, the word seduction – along with that of chemistry - seemed accurate enough. He was like that, Emmanuel. He couldn't help it, he would seduce the entire world. It was part of his nature and he had fallen too from the very first moment, without knowing if the Frenchman would dump him in the end.

  
Justin's stream of thoughts was cut short by the trumpets of the Royal Guard announcing the arrival of the Queen. Her Majesty progressed to her seat from the opposite side, followed by her son; she sported a pink suit and an assorted hat; the thought that she was, too, a veteran from that era crossed Justin's mind as everyone stood on their feet and the British Anthem resounded in that Porthsmouth Beach. Once the anthem ended, the Queen took a pair of sunglasses from her handbag. Maybe because she didn't want to look at Trump, who was sitting at her side. The screen on scene changed from a huge Union Jack to images of Normandy landing and videos of veterans and, with the music of _Saving Private Ryan_ in the background, a bunch of these gentlemen advanced to the front of the stage under a standing ovation coming first from the leaders, then from the rest of the public.

  
Without being immodest, he could say that his performance was good enough. What was even more extraordinary, Trump was quite decent in his reading too, without a single faux pas as he repeated Roosevelt's D-Day prayer; Donald behaving like a reasonable human being during a ceremony was remarkable enough to be noticed. And then there was Emmanuel’s reading (4).

  
_My dear parents, my letter will cause you great pain, but I have seen you so full of courage that I do not doubt that you will want to preserve it, if only for love of me._

  
With a red background behind him, like everyone else, and with the image of the person who had written these lines, like everyone else. But the face that stared at them from the past was that of a young boy that should have been busy with other things instead of leaving his last farewell to his parents as he listened to the steps of the soldiers that were part of the firing squad coming for him. There was beauty in these words, though, and the French president knew how to translate it by changing the tone of his voice and even thanks to his eyes, that looked even more blue on stage. It was, Justin realized, like if that thing had been built for him.

  
_… The soldiers are coming for me. I cannot delay. My handwriting may be shaky, but that is because I only have a stub of a pencil. I have no fear of death, my conscience is completely clear._

  
_Oh, damn you, Emmanuel_.

  
Even if stealing the spotlight wasn’t his intention – but Justin couldn’t be sure about it – he had just succeeded in doing so. Who was going to think about adult soldiers or about the prayer of an American president when you had a boy writing these things, and his eyes staring at you. Even if these words were in French and addressed to a – mostly, probably – monolingual, English-speaking audience? There was applause at the end, somewhat more warm that the polite one that had rewarded the previous reading by leaders. As Emmanuel went back to his seat, the Chant des Partisans was being sung, while Justin had his eyes glued in his friend.

  
Being moved, almost to tears, was almost as inconvenient as bobbing one's head at the rhythm of Miller's music. He sighed and expected no one was filming his face.

***

  
“I and Melania are very much looking forward for tomorrow’s ceremony”, the President of the United States said, or rather screamed later. At his side, his wife Melania smiled tightly, her face shadowed by her hat, as much as her emotions were hidden under the heavy make-up that concealed every possible imperfection. It had been complicated to get around the hat to greet her –something that Emmanuel had avoided just briefly holding her hand, as if he was about to kiss it, while she looked at him behind her half-closed lids.

  
Justin wondered if the First Lady was really there, or if her spirit was lost in some mental secret palace of hers, because there was a second or two between Donald’s words and her reaction. Mr. Trump tried then to hold his wife’s hand, as if to reinforce the idea that they were eager to share another homage to the veterans the next day, this time alone with the French presidential couple. But Melania quickly avoided him, profiting of the moment to run her fingers through her own hair and put a rebellious wisp of hair that had escaped from her bun behind her ear. The president’s hand was left in the air, until he left it fall. Perched on her high stiletto shoes, she stepped to her right, leaving even more free space between her and her husband. She had laughed earlier when one of the veterans they had met had flirted with her, exclaiming “ _If only I was 20 years younger_! (5)”. Then she had regained her enigmatic calm.

  
“The same goes for Brigitte… and me”, Emmanuel had answered, with a little nod of his head. Melania's smile was instantly less tense and conventional at the word _Brigitte_.

“She's sorry for not being here today, but she had to visit someone. A hospital for children. No cameras, no journalists. There was a girl there who had written to her and she promised to visit”.

  
“That's so nice”, Melania said, sounding sincere enough. Her smile broaded. She made a step to her right again. “Maybe I should do the same”.

  
Her husband raised his eyebrows, but didn't look at her directly.

  
“In my opinion, Emmanuel, that's a lost opportunity not having the cameras there. It would be good PR and God knows you need it”, Donald said then, always at odds with anything that barely resembled diplomacy “With all these millions guys in yellow screaming _We want Trump!_ at the street”

  
“ _Fake news_ (6), as you would say, Donald”, Emmanuel said with a smile that didn't arrive to his eyes. Justin had seen that kind of smile sometimes, a smile that it's only teeth. Rarely from Emmanuel. The Frenchman patted Trump´s back, before adding “Anyway she's the one to decide how she does her visits”.

  
“She's right. The only time I decided to really listen to my assesors they ended handing me a mostly plagiarized speech”, Melania commented, suddenly animated. “And how's Sophie?”, she said, looking at Justin.

  
“Fine, thanks. She would like to be here”, the Prime Minister said. A convincing lie, anyway. “You'll see her in Osaka most probably, during the summit”.

  
“I wonder which kind of show they'll put off for us this time”, Donald said “There was that opera in Hamburg...”

  
“Symphony actually”, Emmanuel corrected. “Beethoven's Ninth Symphony”.

  
“… That was nice but too long, and I say this as no opera expert even if I have seen many many operas at the Met, the best possible operas, but, I repeat, I am not an expert unlike Emmanuel, who seems to know that world pretty well. Profoundly and deeply I would say. I have no _close_ friends in that _milieu_ ” he was mispronouncing the word, but that was irrelevant; Trump looked at Emmanuel again; evidently this was an allusion to Madame Mendieta, but the French president's only reaction was showing his teeth even more. Now his smile had arrived to his eyes, but it was quite curious how in spite of that his glance only expressed the feeling of wanting to hit Donald's head with a chair. You could picture him stabbing someone with that smile. Melania put one of her perfectly manicured hands on her husband's elbow.

“I am sure it will be a splendid thing, like in Buenos Aires”, she said. “Now, if you excuse us, I think Donald would like to talk to Mrs. Merkel, still didn't say her a word today!”

  
“Ah, yes. Tariffs. You know, German cars” he looked at Justin “I would like to make her an offer, a commercial treaty. If you excuse me...”

  
The Trumps left their side and went to the other extreme of the venue – a tent with no corners to hide – where Angela Merkel stood at the side of Mark Rutte. The German chancellor squared her shoulders the moment she realized Trump was going to address to her. Rutte said something to her ear and disappeared from her side, not wanting to be involved. Not corageus, but understandable.

  
“You can bet she'll be forced to tell him again that it's the EU the one which makes the commercial treaties and not its member states. It must be the twelft time at least”, Emmanuel commented. There was something in his voice that tells Justin he's struggling to contain himself; the mere mention to Madame Mendieta’s existence in the mouth of Trump seemed to lead to this result. He was almost surprised those taps in the American president's back weren't punches.

  
“I am suffocating here, I think I need some fresh air” it was false as he was feeling perfectly fine from that point of view, but he didn't like the way Emmanuel's eyes were fixated on Trump's back. He put his hand on Emmanuel's wrist “Would you please accompain me?”

  
Emmanuel put more time than needed in answering. When he raised his eyes that dangerous light had vanished. Even so, he didn't seemed too overjoyed about the perspective of walking around the tent.

  
“The security guys aren't going to like this”

  
“But we never cared about their feelings, am I right?” Justin joked, tentatively.

  
“No, never.” he answered “I think they'll hate me at the end of my presidency. If they don't hate me already. The poor things”.

***

  
“It was a nice ceremony, don't you think?” their steps resounded in the wet pavement around the tent. One of these light Spring showers had fallen during the reception and it wouldn't be the only one, judging by how the sky was clouded “ The British... They know how to do these things” Emmanuel was looking at the sea, in direction to France. A light breeze was playing with his hair, especially with that swirl Justin absurdly longed to tame.

  
“Yes it was. And moving. That letter of yours...” he took his arm. The President didn't retire his “You seemed so sincere, so moved, almost on the verge of tears that I couldn't help to be moved, myself. Yes, to the core, Emmanuel. You have that gift, now and them, and you know it perfectly”

  
“Well thank you, Justin. It's a comforting thought to know that someone appreciated it. In contrast to:” he took his phone out of his pocket and started to read comments under the video of the reading, posted in his Twitter “ _Third rate acting_ , _having Macron there is an insult to real resistants_ , _Yellow vests are the true resistants now MAGA MAGA MAGA_ or _everything he says sounds so false_...” he paused and added “Ah, there is one that wants to hang me by my... well, I think you get the picture; one of these Mélenchon fans who has Human beings first in their profile; is not that Le Pen's fans are doing better. In fact they say the same, but with extra racism” he stopped and looked directly at him. “I guess they don't consider me a human being then. When I decided to run for president, I was prepared to be ridiculized, is part of my job... But one is never prepared for being so hated I guess”.

  
“They sound almost the same than the comments I get” Justin answered looking at the screen of his own smartphone and scrolling down the comments of Youtube under his own reading “ _What does that traitor knows about sacrifice_ , _he's paying terrorists and he dares to speak today MAGA MAGA MAGA_ , or _I am surprised he didn't disguise himself as a soldier_. I am sure there are some as... creative as yours as far as the body part by I should be hanged is related but I refuse to read further” he locked the screen again “You see, you are not that special in that matter” he kicked a little stone; no, one is never prepared for hatred, one just resing himself to suffer it “As my father said once...”

  
“ _I have been called worse things by better people_ (7)”, Emmanuel completed. “Great quote by the way; but even Nixon sounded more decent than dear Donald does most of the time about any of us. It's the second time I almost lose my nerves because of that, and I should be accostumed already” his arm slipped from Justin's one “I am sorry, Justin, I am very aware you brought me here because you wanted to distract me from Donald's words, and yet here I am. Had not been for Melania...”.

  
“What would you have done?”

  
“I don't know. I prefer not to say it”.

  
“But I get the picture” the Canadian said. There was that fleeting thought about Donald also getting a great quantity of hatred online. How did he felt about it? It was something that assaulted him now and then; it was like his empathy had limits and he didn't like that. Not at all.

  
“Exactly” his eyes were lost in the horizon again.

  
Justin looked at him; maybe it wasn't the right moment to tell he had met Elena at the beginning of the year, and how he had asked her about that rumor of the book although he knew it already. Maybe it was better not mentioning her at all, not now. What would he say? That she had sang Fedora perfectly, specially during the death scene, but that he had found her... underwhelming and not entirely appealing? That he didn't get his friend's enthusiasm for the soprano? That she had seemed sincere when she denied she had the intention to write about her affair with the President, but that he didn't trust her entirely? That he was worried about him? He could not tell Emmanuel that. Not now.

  
He looked back and saw their security details at certain distance, always disapproving.

  
“I think we should go back there”, Justin said.

  
“Of course, of course...” Emmanuel said “By the way, did you see Theresa? She seems to be the happiest individual in that tent”.

  
“She probably is, but I don't think resigning would make me happy, personally”.

  
“No. And her resignation doesn't make me happy, either. We had Donald, now we are going to have Boris, too”

  
“What a joyous perspective” Justin said surrounding the president's shoulders with his arm. He didn't seem bothered by his gesture as they went back to the tent. They were confronted to the sight of Angela Merkel rolling her eyes at one of Donald's comments, probably – hopefuly - about trade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) The entire chapter is based in this ceremony: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mSL9NJ8WJMM  
> (2) This is Trudeau's reading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxpQxgVuVtE  
> (3) For Fertet's death and posthumous fame: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henri_Fertet  
> (4) Which you can watch directly here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSeExv1wTGw  
> (5) Yep, there was a cheeky old gentleman flirting with her there.  
> (6) Obviously this was "fake news" as yellow vests didn't sing "We want Trump" https://www.france24.com/en/20190226-fact-or-fake-have-french-yellow-vest-gilets-jaunes-protesters-been-chanting-we-want-trump  
> (7) Pierre Trudeau about Richard Nixon, after the American president called him "asshole"
> 
> Well, that was all for today. More later this week. Enjoy and comment, or not, as you prefer. Feel totally free! :)


	40. Alone with my telephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one with a phone call that doesn't end like you are imagining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I told you, there's a new chapter. Probably no more this week, which who knows, writing is one of the few things one can do these days! :) Usual reminder: forget my mispellings and grammar errors. I know there's some of these out there. Enjoy.

**XL**   
**Alone with my telephone**

I am so glad that you understand.  
And now, let's say good-bye.  
I want to think it over,  
if anything else should happen today  
I promise to call you again.  
Good-bye. Good-bye.  
Oh, where has he gone?  
He left me alone with my telephone.  
I wonder what he wanted to tell me?  
I have the feeling he had something on his mind.  
MENOTTI, _The Telephone_ (1) _  
_

The light of the terrace is on, it's all she knows when she opens her eyes. She doesn't remember what she was doing when she fell asleep. Her habits in that particular aspect have turned more and more erratic. If she can't usually sleep without her pills by night, sometimes fatigue invades her at other moments of the day. As for today, apart from the fact of taking off her shoes, sitting at the bed, because her feet felt swollen after spending the day at the hospital – like she has done most of the last days... No, she doesn't remember anything apart from that. Her father's condition is improving and he seems capable of winning the battle, this time at least. Elena and her siblings take turns to spend their time at their father's side. When their mother allows it, of course. She is still the one who had spent most of the nights there. Elena had just came back from one of these days in which her mother had yielded to the evidence and gone home to rest a little; she had spent last night at the room, in the reclining chair at his father's bedside – the other patient in the room had a really ugly cough that had kept her awake – helping him to eat or just talking to him. Today he has walked for the first time since the stroke, up and down the hallway. The man from room 113 was still moaning, either in pain or disorientated. No one came to visit him, and, as Elena had discovered one of the nights she has been spending at the hospital, he goes on until he falls asleep. It was the same night when she discovered she could block the reclining chair and kept it from sliding through the room.

Spending her days at the hospital reading music scores in which she couldn’t concentrate anyway is testing her patience. And there is the smell, the stench of the hospital, that sticks to her clothes, her skin and hair. Is not the room, or the hospital itself, it’s not clean, is just a weird atmosphere that reigns there and that she cannot stand. She has that smell on her now, and a dry mouth on top of that; she was feeling tired when she sat on the bed and apparently crumbled, fully dressed, under the weight of her exhaustion. She’s feeling worse now. But the smell, or her fatigue, is not what has awaken her. Is the light on the terrace, and the voices coming from there. Voices belonging to Carmen and Isabel. They were talking about her.

  
“… already too many days lost. She was supposed to be in Milan next week, and then off to her _Norma_ on tour.”

  
“Did she cancel yet?”

  
“No. As you may know, Elena’s career is no longer my business, but I do worry about it. About _her_. I had to talk to Mrs. Blackwood via Skype. All I can say is that she wasn’t happy to see me, neither to learn by the press that Elena is in Madrid right now” there was a pause, a pause Elena supposed it was due to Carmen bringing a cigarette to her lips “I know how that feels, learning things about her in the press, so I could relate to Mrs. Blackwood for a second or two”.

  
“But I have no heart to tell my sister she should go immediately. I was relieved when I saw her at the hospital; at the end Marta did a good thing even if she was so afraid that she forgot completely about Elena singing that night, or about her being a singer. Now…”.

  
“Now your father has improved and my opinion is that Elena should go back to her environment”.

  
 _Environment_. It sounds like she was a wild beast which had been wounded and taken to a refuge; now that the wound was healed the beast should be released. Fully awake now, she realises that someone – Carmen or Isabel, it doesn’t really matter – has covered her with a towel instead of a blanket. She feels cold anyway inside that bedroom, in spite of the heat wave that during the last days had hit the city. Silently, she pros herself on her elbow and checks the hour in her phone. Midnight. She has two lost calls. One of these is from him, as he has kept the promise he made when she was on the Lusitania night train. Of course she has forgotten to un mute the phone after leaving the hospital.

  
“In my opinion, the sooner she goes back to her routine the better” Carmen went on “Look at Novikova…”

  
“Is that the Russian one?”

  
“Yes. She retired for a short while because she wanted to take care of her father, personally. A noble thing to do…”

  
“ _But_ …”

  
“There’s no _but_. A noble thing to do, period; admirable. However, as much as opera aficionados can admire singers when they behave like decent human beings, they prefer them on stage as soon as possible. Or they would rather listen to a soul less bastard who hits all the right notes”

  
“I see…”

  
“That’s how the world was made. If they can’t have Elena because she waits here, they’ll admire her abnegation and search for another name. It has happened to Novikova, it will happen to her if she remains more time here. And it happened to others before, no matter how good they were. Have you ever heard of Anita Cerquetti?”

  
“Shame on me, but I am not familiar with that name”

  
Elena finally gets up and folds the towel. It must be washed anyway; it has the stench of the hospital, just like her clothes and herself. Again. She looks at the pitiful state of her cream pantsuit. Never again she should wear that to the hospital, she says to herself as she unzips the trousers and they fall to the floor. Anita Cerquetti, of course. One of the greatest voices of the second half of the last century…One of these examples of how destructive this world in which Elena lives can be.

  
“One of the greatest voices of the second half of the last century (2)” Carmen says one second later, as if echoing her thoughts. She is so predictable; the soprano mumbles as she sits on the bed again and takes her tights off. “She retired when she was thirty-one years old, no one knows exactly why. Press said she had gone mad, others that she was ill, others that she was taking care of her mother. It was supposed to be temporal anyway, but…”

  
But she never stepped on a stage again. Barefoot and in her underwear, Elena heads to the bathroom; the two voices fade as she closes the door behind her. She must take that stench of her skin at all costs. La Cerquetti had retired when she was young and making herself a place in an era when Callas and Tebaldi occupied all the possible space. During ten years her career had been meteorical, from the moment she stepped for Callas as Norma to the one in which she retired surrounded by legends she didn’t bother to debunk. Fatality, she had said many decades later when asked about the abrupt end of her fame. She had kept herself away, with her husband and her daughter, and probably she had been reasonably happy, as happy as an opera singer who no longer sings can be.

  
Elena is very sceptical about the amount of happiness Anita Cerquetti felt back then, and, leaving this aside, she’s irritated at the two women’s little talk about her own career. Are they implying she’s useless when she’s far from the stage? A burden for her siblings now that the situation is improving, maybe? Is that her being a little paranoiac again? She tests the temperature of the water before sliding under the shower. If they are not implying that, is certainly how she feels right now. Not very different from a canary; you have them for company, but mainly because they sing. She keeps her eyes closed as water falls on her head; she feels comfortable now, and probably would remain there for hours if possible.

  
When she emerges from the shower and returns to her bedroom they are still talking, but not about her. As she takes her football kit from the drawer, she considers the possibility of stepping out there and asking them if they really think she’s a nullity as far as taking care of her father goes. But she discards the thought and, after getting dressed and put on a pair of soft slippers in her feet she takes the phone with her and goes to the living room. The complete score of Bellini's _Norma_ is on the piano, and she sits at the bench after leaving the device on the instrument. Her fingers start to play the introduction to the first scene of Act II; it's a somber piece of music for a somber scene. After she discovers the proconsul Pollione, her lover and father of her two sons, is going back to Rome and probably taking the boys with him, as well as his new fancy Adalgisa – a younger priestesses that doesn't seem that enthusiastic with his project – Norma decides to kill her own children to spare them from the destiny they can face in Pollione's hometown and also to get revenge. But her resolution fails; unlike in the play in which the libretto is inspired upon, Norma is not an infanticide.

  
 _Dormono entrambi..._ she mumbles; of course the _Voice_ is not heated enough and she won't go on singing tonight. She's only studying the score one more time; you can always find something new. Here Norma approachs the bed where her children are sleeping _Non vedran la mano che li percuote_... There she ponders about stabbing them in their dream, so they don't suffer. _Teneri figli...._ her resolution falters, as she remembers how she felt when they were born; at the end she is incapable of murdering them (3).

  
“Ah, so you are awake”.

  
Isabel is at the terrace door, leaning against the threshold. The soprano stops playing. Carmen appears behind her sister, her cigarette still on; or maybe is another one.

  
“And already studying. Good girl”.

  
Elena smiles back, but without real enthusiasm. It surely looks false.

  
“We didn't want to leave while you were asleep”, Isabel says, approaching the piano “I think it need some varnish here. Who had the idea of leaving there a glass?”

  
“It wasn't a glass. And it was me”, Elena says without looking at her sister. Her playing transitions from Bellini to a clumsy interpretation of the final part of the overture of Offenbach's _La vie parisienne_. From memoir. Then she stopped “Going home already?”

  
“Yes. I think _Nelly II_ has had time alone enough to change the locks and put my stuff outside. Are you coming, Carmen?”

  
Her ex manager looks at her, hesitant. She probably has guessed there's something that bothers the soprano, but says nothing, maybe thinking is better to leave her alone. She takes her handbag with the cigarette still between her lips.

  
“Yes” then she adds “I'll come to get you tomorrow, Elena”

  
“Oh, no. I'll take the Metro. It has been a long time”

  
“Do you miss the Metro?” Isabel snorts “As in the crowded, underground thing which is never on time?”

  
“Yes. Surprising, isn't it?” she said “See you two tomorrow” she adds.

  
“Well, good bye, Elena”, her sister says.

  
Carmen looks at her puzzled and probably reading her mind but mumbles _goodbye_ and follows Isabel.

  
Elena doesn't look back at them; instead she turns several pages back and starts playing the final trio from act I, that part that almost sounds like a waltz. Norma and Adalgisa are at last confronted with the man that has seduced them both. And none of the three characters are happy about that. _Oh, di qual sei tu vittima/ crudo e funesto inganno!..._ Now she is singing – in spite of the Voice not being heated. Maybe she's exaggerating, maybe they are right, maybe she should be back to her real life, her routine, her _environment_ as they had called it. Maybe they were worried about her own good, but why should them push her around? In any case she unchains over the keyboard, throwing there all her frustration. To the extreme that she doesn't notice the telephone is vibrating – she's forgotten to unmute it again – until it's almost falling on her right hand. She catches it and unlocks the screen, her other hand still on the instrument. Connecting the speakers, she leaves the device on the piano again.

  
“ _Well, this time I was about to give up for the second time_ ”, she hears.

  
Emmanuel. Of course.

  
“I just wake up”

  
“ _I see you left the hospital late. How is your father doing_?”

  
“He's been better today, thank you. The doctor says he's improving quickly”

  
“ _Glad to hear that, dear_ ”

  
“Where are you?”

  
“ _Geneva. I am giving a speech tomorrow at the ILO. Merkel and Medvedev are also here_ (5)”

  
“Who? Ah, yes, the Russian Prime Minister. I forget he exists, sometimes”.

  
“ _Probably he forgets it too. I am correcting the speech right now. Maybe I'll make it longer than expected. What do you think about this part?”_ he made a pause and then said _“I believe that today we are on the brink, if we don’t take care, of a time of war. And that war is present in our democracies - it’s the profound crisis we’re going through. We can choose to be sleepwalkers. But if we want true progress we need to make some serious commitments_ ”

  
“I don't know what to think”, she answers. Norma's conflicted feelings seem suddenly far less complicated than all that somber speech. “Maybe if I had the context”

  
“ _You’ll have the context tomorrow, I don’t want to spoil everything right now. But I’m telling you which part the media is going to pick for the headline: Capitalism has gone mad. It will give food for thought for those who still think I am a neoliberal; what’s your opinion?_ ”

  
“About capitalism? I have nothing against it, only about not having enough capital sometimes. If I have the right to complain, which some people will think I don’t” anyway that language seemed outdated for her “You being a neoliberal? I am not sure of what you are politically anymore but you already knew that I don’t confide in politicians. You were the exception”

  
 _“Ah yes, I remember that_ ” is possible that there is a touch of regret in his voice? “ _I_ was”.

  
“Yes, then reality came, and I prefer reality. I already told you that you are not to blame for it catching you. On the other hand, that’s irrelevant since I can’t vote for you. I’d still do if I could, there’s no better option. That’s not the part of you I am interested on” only that she doesn’t want him to fail, either. Wasn’t’ that a contradiction?

  
“ _Well thank you for your ringing endorsement, is not that I have heard that previously a thousand times a day. Are you all right, dear?_ ”

  
“Of course I am”, she says, putting again her fingers on the keyboard. The instrument emitts a discordant sound that seems more a complain than a recognizable melody. Just feeling a little useless and not actually wanting to have an opinion about his speech on capitalism of whatever it was about, that was all “I was studying the score. At the piano”.

  
 _“Ah, yes, the piano…”_ he says _“I have good memoirs of that piano. Even if it’s not perfectly on tune I would say”_

  
“I know” yes, the piano needs to be tuned.

  
 _“And which score was that?_ Norma _?”_

  
“Yes, Norma”, she answers with the same tone the character used when the proconsul is brought by the druids at the end of the second act, just before their duet and her final sacrifice “It makes me sad and… I have good memories of the last time I sang it at Garnier, too”, she whispers, finally softened. She starts to play the introduction to Pollione and Adalgisa’s duet from Act I.

  
“ _You see, these are the complexities of the at the same time doctrine_ ” he says laughing “ _I don’t think I have heard you playing before_ ”

  
“Are you going to say that my fingers are better at doing other things?” she teases him, stopping. “I could say the same of yours, even if you are a better pianist than I’ll ever be”.

  
“ _Why did you stop?_ ”

  
“Wouldn't you prefer to see my fingers doing more interesting things in a videocall instead of them never doing justice to Bellini's music? I have these black shorts you seemed to like last time you and I were around a piano together”

  
She heard a chuckle from him.

  
“ _And your poor, pathetic football team's – what was their name? - shirt. Oh, don't be furious. That's an extremely tempting offer, only that I must refuse it. Imagine that video falls in someone else's hands. I hope you understand. But you could go on playing. Or singing_ ”.

  
“Killjoy” she says then “There will be no singing tonight. The voice is not prepared for that”; but she plays again, this time is Norma's cabaletta from Act I. _Ah bello a me ritorna del fido amor premiero/ e contro il mondo intiero/ difesa a te sarò_... Ah bring me back to me the beauty of our first love, and against the world itself I shall be your defence

“This” she says over the music “is a great scene, but not my favorite one”.

  
“ _The ending is your favorite, you told me once_ ”

  
“Yes, and it leaves me devastated. The downfall. The death by fire. The last plea for the lives of her children” her fingers start to playing that last part.

  
_Ah! Tu perdoni!_   
_Quel pianto il dice._   
_Io più non chiedo. Io son felice._   
_Ah! Più non chiedo, ah, no_   
_Contenta il rogo io ascenderò!_

(Ah, you forgive me

your tears have told me.

I ask no more. I am happy.

Ah! I ask no more, ah, no.

and gladly I shall ascend the pyre!) (6)

  
The _Voice_ as she is refering to this night, seems to have its own will. She's not only playing but also singing Norma's last words of gratitude towards her father, who has sworn to protect her children, the same children she was resolved to kill at the beginning of that same act. The priestress was a complicated person, no doubt.

  
“ _Brava_ ” Emmanuel's voice says “ _You see, everyone else could think about an... interesting video like that you seemed eager to send me_ ”.

  
“Everyone? Do people still send you that kind of...”

  
“ _And always without asking for them. No, but since you aren't like everyone else, singing Bellini is better I would say. There are things is better to do when we are in the same room, don't you think?_ ” he's silent for a second or two “ _Even if I must agree in one thing you said earlier. It is devastating_ ”.

  
There's another phone ringing on the background as he says this last words. She hears him sigh.

  
“ _I have to leave you, dear. It's Donald forgetting again about timezones. I'll call you tomorrow. Good night_ ”

  
“Good night”, the soprano answers, not entirely satisfied with the brusque end of their conversation.

  
The phone call ends. She is left alone, looking at the music score. _A guisa di lamento_ , it's indicated about the orchestral accompainment. _As in a lament_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you the phone call wouldn't end like you imagined...
> 
> (1) The telephone or L'amour a trois is a short opera by Giancarlo Menotti, premiered in 1947. You can find a recording here. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JaujpAjA_Wo  
> (2) Anita Cerquetti (1931-2014), a soprano of meteoric raise and powerful voice. In her own words, she did leave her career in order of take care of her family and forced by the constant stress. The rumors about her having a mental disease really circulated for a while, which she found disgusting. An interview with her with her own version of the story: https://www.belcantosociety.org/cerquetti/ And of course her voice: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMSPXBVcVyY  
> (3) Listen to this scene in Callas' recording from Rome in 1955, specially from 2:28 on.  
> (4) "What a cruel, infamous deception has trapped you!" in this scene Adalgisa discovers the guy she's being "dating" has another relationship, and two children on top on that. The scene ends with the two women refusing that jerkass, which is satisfactory. The complete trio with Caballé, Cossotto and Cossutta can be listened here (the part I made reference to starts in 2:50): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=54TORRzTR0k  
> (5) So we are talking about this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ebu6Xkjk14U  
> (6) Scotto's take on this scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QTyCoJRdjzM Or you can take a look at Anderson, with period instruments (not a fan of this version by the way, but has English subtitles and it's moving anyway): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STsTAOZFD_I
> 
> Well, that's all for today. As usual, feel free to comment and hope you enjoyed.  
> Until next chapter!


	41. Vltava

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One with its share of drama at the opera company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter today. Again, forgive me for my imperfect command of the English language. Without more ado, enjoy. You have some notes at the end. Of course the chapter is named after this marvelous piece of music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8tRbZkRH5ps

**XLI**  
**Vltava**

From: Chus  
To: Carmen

I'm writing you from the Café Slavia. Not sitting at that table you liked so much but that was never free. Today is not an exception. As far I remember, we only sat there once, that night after _Don Pasquale_. I have the impression that Evžen's hand was behind that rare privilege, but Evžen is no longer here, apparently having retired last year. There are some new faces here and I would say I feel old. Our waiter, Alex, had never heard of Elena, Angelika or Sobinov, for that matter. This doesn't mean anything about him, but only that he sees the National Theatre as the building across the street from where customers come after performances. Another contrast with Evžen, who was like a walking encyclopaedia of opera. But he has heard about Alan, and who has not in the last two days. If in such a short time we have already had that amount of drama, I can't think what awaits us until we are back in Brussels.

Everything has happened so quickly that we are still adapting to his substitute. Whenever this kind of things see the light there's always the same everyone knew reaction and in the case of Mr Brown it wasn't different... And we all know Alan. The letter on the _Chicago Tribune_ appeared two days ago. The morning after Sobinov was already under pressure to fire him; the Maestro was reluctant, talked about presumption of innocence and so forth and so on. Fortunately or not, and as opera houses in the World started to drop Alan during the hours that followed the accusation, the artistic director of La Monnaie decided for him. He called the tenor to his room – the substitute for his office – and no one knows exactly what happened between these two. I am told that the tenor was pale as death when he emerged from that interview; in any case we learnt he had withdrawn from the _Norma_ production a quarter of hour before the rehearsal began. He was replaced with that tenor you may remember from the _Manon_ Elena sang at New York. Apparently he's recovered his voice; the relationship he has with us has improved somewhat, but he still remembers the rooster sticker incident. When I told him that Anne was no longer with us, he said _Good riddance!_

As for our collective reaction to Mr. Brown's downfall, I can't say anyone in the company has looked pained at it. Well, maybe no one was jumping up and down with joy – with the possible exception of Angelika, but if she has done so, it was in private – even if Elena seems relieved for not having him here and made a comment of the style of _What goes around, comes around_. Maybe the only who was a little saddened was Sobinov, but that's probably because he had to give the other tenor a crash course about his _vision_ for _Norma,_ or rather for Pollione. Two hours after his withdrawal Alan made a presser where he denied the claims of sexual assault and made a plea stressing his innocence, as well as denounced the suffering that this was bringing to his wife and children. One may think that, had he kept his hands still, not to mention other parts of his body, maybe they wouldn't' be facing this now, even in the remote case he was innocent, which no one believes, except his most ardent fans. The company has stressed, however, that Mr. Brown's departure had been on mutual agreement. It sounds better that we kicked him out because all the comments on social networks were becoming too embarrassing. And that was why Alex had heard about us. Or rather about Alan.

  
Apart from that, rehearsals have gone smoothly enough, if we leave aside the couple of times Elena got distracted and lost her cue. She had that fixed the third time she tried. We have a very minimalistic production that, however, has quite elaborate costumes; there is a Napoleonic aura in this Norma, I don't know exactly why. The tenor looks like a cuirassier in Waterloo and, as for Elena, the costume she wears in her first scene makes her look like she had lost her ticket to assist to Napoleon's coronation. Or abdication. She joked about keeping it for her next _Tosca_ , someone that apparently offended the costume designer. I was forced to calm him down. Nothing of this appeared to bother our director, a woman of great calm, the kind of calm one would call indifference. I later discovered that she had handed a manifesto to every single member of the cast about the purpose behind her stage direction for _Norma_. As I discovered, said manifesto is fifty pages long and personalized for the singers. Did she rewrite it for Alan's substitute? I don't know exactly. The case is even Clotilde and Flavio (1) had their own. I am surprised she didn't give one to the two children. Once we were back in the hotel Elena tried to convince me of reading it for her and making a resume for her, something that I refused.

  
“Imagine you have to follow her written indications, what are going you do tomorrow if you didn't read the manifesto?”

  
“I know my character very well, thank you, and, besides, it's the Maestro the one that counts. _Prima la musica_ (2), you know”

  
“The Maestro has his own copy”

  
“... And threw it in the paper bin immediately, I saw him” she handed me the manifesto again, and again I refused. There was a reason besides that I thought reading it was the right option. Carmen, I have never read such purple prose from a human being. It's not strange that Elena refused to go beyond the first pages. The case is she finally took the thing to her room. There I saw it this morning, along with the music sheets for _Aida_ 's two arias from Acts I and III. Mrs. Blackwood had been adamant about that hypothetical Aida but Elena still refuses to sing the role. Even if she says that incorporating the arias to her future recitals can't do any harm.

  
“I hope this will calm Mrs. Blackwood for a while” she said, shrugging. “After all, I once included _Salut à la France!_ in a recital and that didn't meant I incorporated Marie to my repertoire.

  
“You know that this won't be enough for her” I replied. And I knew the reasons behind that choice. For picking _Salut à la France_ , I mean. I don't know what the individual in question who caused Elena's pick for her Salzburg recital things about her singing _Aida_.

  
“But there won't be another concession”, she said. Discussion ended there. Today we have the dress rehearsal and this night will attend to Maestro Rinaldi's concert. He's in Prague too and invited us all to his performance. So I'll write you again and we'll see if Elena did her homework with the manifesto or not.

From: Chus  
To: Carmen

Thank you for your best wishes, did you call Elena already? Well, anyway here we were all pretty optimistic after the dress rehearsal, and apparently the homework was duly done by Elena. Or so I believed. Actually, she told me later, she just cherry picked the parts that were about her movements in scene. There was no need to search for further motivations in her role, she told me again. But I must say that if she faked her way through the rehearsal, she did it pretty well. During the interval, Maestro Rinaldi came to see us; he told he was quite intimidated and a bit nervous because of the programme of his concert. Conducting _Má Vlast_ (3) in Prague and with the Orchestra of Radio France, and in the Smetana hall makes him nervous. Imagine, a French conductor with a French orchestra playing Smetana in Prague! And the symphonic cycle that represents that much for Czech people! He was intimidated, he told us, not only by that, but also because people think about him mainly as an opera, not a symphonic conductor. Even if he is, too, a symphonic conductor. Then followed a conversation between him and Sobinov about how the main melody of _Vltava_ was deeply rooted in mankind's heritage and how similarities could be found in Italian, Swedish or even Spanish music (4). _It's the very heart of Europe speaking to you_ , the Russian said. Sometimes he really has a way with words... And, last but not least, they left us for a while to discuss some things that only conductors find interesting. I… guess. Maestro Rinaldi left after an hour; his next stop in the tour is Sarajevo. That makes him emotional because the last time he was there it was in 1994. He was one of these conductors who were there during, or immediately after the war (5).

  
So last night we went to the concert; I had to sit apart from the rest of the group, because… you know, I am not part of the cast and they had better seats. You know how it works. However, I can’t complain of the acoustics. There was a venerable old lady who sat at my side and told me that she had been there when Kubelik came back in 1990 and conducted the same programme in the opening concert of Prague Spring Musical. Everyone knows the story: once World War II ended, Kubelik had left his homeland, claiming that he had suffered through the Nazis and wasn’t going to suffer another dictatorship, this time a communist one. When the Soviet Union fell the old exiled conductor went back to Prague and opened said festival with a performance of _Má Vlast_ in the Smetana Hall, followed with another one on open air (6).

  
“Well, this is not the same, but it’s not bad for a French conductor I think” The reaction from the audience was not exactly enthusiast, but they were warm enough. However the piece that was received more warmly was the encore: the overture from Verdi’s _I Vespri Siciliani_. I think this says it all. Then she gave me a crash course in the story of the building.

  
After the concert we enjoyed a reception. There was a lot of gossip about Alan’s situation. As the opera houses of the world started to drop him, there were rumours his wife was asking him for a divorce. I know they had some sort of pre-matrimonial agreement, so this is not looking well for him, both artistically and from the economic point of view. He had issued a text in his website, stressing his innocence on the charges the author of the letter held against him, but no one believes him. There are too many witnesses to his antics in the past. It sucks for his children, too. One of the girls has been bullied at the school. A few colleagues have stepped for him, stating that everyone is innocent until proven guilty. They are becoming scarce as more and more fellow female singers are unearthing old claims about Mr. Brown’s behaviour. The artistic director, who was also invited to the concert, is reportedly annoyed at how this affair has totally overshadowed our stay here.

  
The main news however, related with this concert, is that Maestro Rinaldi learnt just half an hour before it that he had been awarded the Legion d’Honneur, which made him even more intimidated; because of the reception that will take place in some point of next autumn or winter and because some of the things he’s saying about the president lately. Not positive things, by the way. Something about never given culture the real importance it deserved, when it's clear he's a cultivated person. Something about duplicity. I don't know, Elena is the expert in memorizing all these things. “ _Maybe I’ll invite some of you_ ”, he joked looking at us all. Looking directly to Elena. He seems apologetic for not having backed her against the board of the Opéra. Elena's lawyer had been calling these days. The things seem to have changed since the last time she was in her office. Now she's favouring an off-court settlement.

  
Well, I have to leave you. Elena has to be at the opera house a couple of hours before the performance because of that elaborate costume and make up she’s due to wear on stage.

From: Chus  
To: Carmen

  
Do you remember what Bellini wrote after the premiere of _Norma_? Yes, _Fiasco, fiaschissimo_. This is exactly the feeling I have tonight after the first of our two performances here. I don’t know what happened to Elena, but she was distracted, sometimes erratic, and the conductor had difficulties trying to get her off of all the mess. It’s not that she was singing out of tune, which she was not; but there was routine, like she really didn’t put her soul in her singing or her acting. The reception from the public was accordingly lukewarm. Things improved somewhat during act II, but it looked like she was just leaving herself to be carried away. Norma did became a success after that first fiasco as everyone knows. Is there any hope for our second performance after all? Even the director was angry. When Sobinov came to the dressing room during the interval he didn’t seem bursting with joy.

  
“Very well, Madame, where is the Elena Mendieta I saw at the dress rehearsal and what did you do with her?” was his question. I wish I could reproduce the tone in which he said that.

  
“I am sorry, Maestro. I don’t know exactly what happened” it sounds conventional but was probably the only reasonable thing she could say at that point. She was sitting at the desk, before the mirror, her head between her hands and her fingers slowly massaging her temples. I had found her in the same position minutes earlier; I can't tell you if she had been crying or not. One thing was certain she had been taking a look at _Aida_ ’s arias, which were just under her elbow.

  
“Do you think I should sing the entire thing, after all?”

  
It had been an abrupt question, as she does now and then. Mrs. Blackwood's pressure seems to be working, Heavens know why or how. We have come a long way from the Amneris phase, in such a little time.

  
“Are you seriously asking for my opinion?” I thought that had been settled in our last conversation, but she seemed incapable of forgetting about it.

  
“Yes. I would like to know it”, she replied, without taking her eyes from the score.

  
“You have always said that it is to heavy for your voice, and I agree”, I told her. “What changed your mind? And besides, you were always saying how dramatically unappealing the role was for you”

  
“It's true”, she whispered.

  
And we were in the middle of that conversation when Sobinov came, sit at the sofa and started to lecture Elena.

  
“You were being unprofessional, that was what happened. Ignored my indications, ignored the director’s indications too, ignored the other singers, went on your own way without thinking about the rest of us… like if you were in your own bubble. I’ve never seen that from you, Madame… Elena. Are you feeling unwell? Is your father... Because I see no other explanation to…”

  
“No, Maestro. I am not feeling sick, and my father is reasonably well, I am told by my sister. It’s just a… bad day I guess. I’ll try my best in the second act” she was blinking back tears. Probably wounded pride and impotence to tame the Voice, unless there’s something more.

  
“You’d better do, Madame” then he realized he was being, maybe, a little too harsh “Look, Elena, I am sure of that” he looked at the sheets, softened “Just don’t be distracted with other things now. We are counting on you, Elena”. He left then. We kept silent. She sighed and kept her head down, looking at the music sheets. Then she got up from her chair, picking them, and took her black briefcase from the sofa. Apparently she didn’t realize she had left it open, so the content fell to the floor. The complete score for Norma, her eBook reader, her mobile phone, that second hand copy of _Les Fleurs du Mal_ given to her by _you-know-who_ , her sleep pills … all was, in seconds, spilled on the floor. There was something else that fell from the briefcase and hit my shoe, something that seemed like a tricolour cufflink. I picked it for her, and she practically snatched it from me, hiding it from my view; she put it inside her handbag and then knelt down, with all her elaborate dress escaped from the Napoleonic period and started to put all that back in the briefcase again, clumsily.

  
“Elena, would you please tell me what’s happening”, I said. The little plastic can that contained her sleep pills had opened and she was trying to clean them before putting them back inside. She was literally crawling for them.

  
“I’ll need those for tonight”, she said without looking at me, ignoring my question. Several of the pills had broken in two with the fall, so they became dust between her fingers. She kept nonetheless the dust in her palm and put it back on the little can too, anxiously. I realized she was trembling at the idea of losing even the slightest portion of them. Then she raised her eyes and it was worse because she had a haunted look. “Don’t put that face”, she told me. “It’s just I don’t want to bother my doctor again with this”

  
“Of course”, I told her softly, putting the last pill on her palm, just as I had put the cufflink earlier. She smiled back at me, as if we had another little secret between us. It wasn't an entirely pleasant smile, I assure you. Then she got up, brushed the long skirt of her costume and looked herself at the mirror. She called for the make up artist and the hairdresser because her face and her wig needed to be fixed for act II. As I told you, that one went better, but still far from her usual level. I am starting to worry about this, Carmen. At some point, when the tour is over, we’ll have to address directly this problem, because it’s starting to look like one. But what should I tell her, _You need help with this?_

From: Chus  
To: Carmen

  
We are leaving for Budapest this afternoon. As you may read in the reviews, second performance of _Norma_ was brilliant. Everyone focused, Elena being impeccable musically and dramatically, the public enthusiastic, Sobinov making a dramatic reading of the score, Angelika being the personification of innocence, the tenor’s voice sounding just like in his prime… Sobinov seemed exhausted and enthusiastic at the curtain call, and Elena's bad day was regarded as an accident that would not repeat again. Personally I hope it remains as that, but I can't be no longer sure. Elena herself seems to remember little of her breakdown at the dressing room. Is not that she has forbidden me to even mention it, it's simply that she acts as if that never happened. Except for the _Aida_ bit. She seems to be ready to tackle the role now, in a near future.

  
(I found again that the charming old lady from the Smetana hall sitting next to me at the National Theatre during the second performance, which lead eventually to a crash course about the building and its story; she seemed like an expert on these things)

  
Mrs. Blackwood called after the performance, telling us that she would travel to Budapest to assist to that part of the tour. She seems overjoyed because of her approaching victory over Elena's will. I was quite surprised she has everything prepared. Conductor, orchestra, soloists. Eventual venue of a role debut on stage. Director. So she had been undermining Elena's resistance for a while, eventually knowing that she would yield. Impressive or scary, what do you think? She had even succeeded in maintaining Alan's concert in Salzburg, in spite of all the controversy. Apparently it's all he has left.

  
Before leaving the café this morning Alex told us that he had been at Maestro Rinaldi's concert. A friend had given him the tickets. _You see, is not that relevant from where the orchestra came from; I had never realized it... Vltava... is like the very heart of Europe was speaking to you_. And he pointed at his breast to emphasize this. I think Evžen would have been proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Clotilde and Flavio are, naturally, two secundary roles in Bellini's Norma  
> (2) Prima la musica means "music comes first". Usually completed by "e poi le parole". That is, the supremacy of music over drama in opera. This has been the theme of several stage works, notably by Salieri titled precisely "Prima la musica e poi le parole") or Strauss (Capriccio). For our soprano it's evident that music (that it's, herself) comes first.  
> (3) Má Vlast (My Homeland) is a series of six symphonic poems by Smetana. The most famous of all them is the second one, Vltava, also known as The Moldau. Its composer described it in this way: "The composition describes the course of the Vltava, starting from the two small springs, the Cold and Warm Vltava, to the unification of both streams into a single current, the course of the Vltava through woods and meadows, through landscapes where a farmer's wedding is celebrated, the round dance of the mermaids in the night's moonshine: on the nearby rocks loom proud castles, palaces and ruins aloft. The Vltava swirls into the St John's Rapids; then it widens and flows toward Prague, past the Vyšehrad, and then majestically vanishes into the distance, ending at the Labe (or Elbe, in German)"  
> (4) There are similarities of the melody with Italy's Mantovana (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gQDjPqaZI1g), Israel's anthem Hativka, the Spanish traditional song Tres Hojitas madre (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LIh6DG36j1o), one of Mozart's variations in C Minor on "Ah, je vous dirai Maman" (Variation n. 8 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OewlDnOGJCE), the Slovenian traditional song Čuk se je oženil (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZJP0mNvALE) etc etc  
> (5) Like, e.g., Zubin Mehta, who conducted the Mozart Requiem in the bombarded shell of Sarajevo's National Library https://youtu.be/DSLFk5NtNK8  
> (6) Rafael Kubelik (1918-1996) did conduct Má Vlast in these two (historically significative) concerts after the Velvet Revolution, which you can watch on Youtube. On the Smetana hall: https://youtu.be/76R0N2GN6Jo  
> On open air: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewssIxVvP0o
> 
> That's all for today. Maybe there will be more this week. In any case feel free to comment, critizise, etc. And until the next one.


	42. Va, infelice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have again trivia about presidential palaces and awkward conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, new chapter is up. As usual, English is not my first language so, even if I am being more and more careful, you'll possibly find some mistakes now and then.  
> One last thing, it ended in a completely different way as it was being written.  
> Enjoy.

**XLII**

**Va, infelice**

_ANNA: Va, infelice, e teco reca_   
_il perdono di Bolena_   
_nel mio duol, furente e cieca_   
_t’ímprecai terribil pena!_   
_(...)_

_GIOVANNA: Ah peggiore è il tuo perdono_   
_dello sdegno ch'io temea._

ANNA: Go, wretched girl, and take with you  
Anne Boleyn’s forgiveness;  
Blinded by my pain and anger  
I wished upon you a terrible punishment  
(...)  
GIOVANNA: Ah! Far worse is your forgiveness  
than the anger that I feared

DONIZETTI, _Anna Bolena_ , Act II

The morning is unusually damp and fresh, and to make it worse, a soft rain has been falling at dawn. She has been forced to take a raincoat with her, a green one which has the feel and the appearance of a glorified trash bag, if such thing is possible. But so far has protected her from the drizzle, even if in her own opinion she looks definitely awful with her hood on. She's tempted to take it off, as rain has stopped falling, but a glance from her companion in this unusual morning walk stops her from doing so.

“Madame will keep herself from doing that, until we are in a secure zone”

It turns out the raincoat has other practical uses in these circumstances. The park seems asleep at this hour of the day, and the eternal crowd of tourists is still waiting at the gates in order to discover the palace and its gardens. To Elena's eyes – not to mention her legs – it seems like they have spent years walking through the dominion, and the rubber boots she's been also forced to wear are looking more and more weighty. Not the time to stop and look far away at her back, where the palace of the Sun King stands. It's other, way more modest dwelling the one that is on her mind now. More modest and mysterious, since in the times of the monarchy one could enter more easily in the massive palace which Alphonse and Elena have left at their backs than one can penetrate now in the building to which they head now. It's forbidden to fly over it; it's forbidden – with the exception of the guests who come from the park or from the road which leads to St. Cyr - to approach its walls too much and even if one looks for maps in no matter the app, the only thing you'll see is a blurred spot (1).

La Lanterne. A former hunting lodge built two years before the Revolution, enclosed in this spot of Versailles and that originally had been the propriety of a captain in Louis XVI's army, or something of that style. Alphonse had been telling her the story, but she's not paying attention, as the expectation is almost making her sick. When De Gaulle became president he decided to reserve this residence for Prime Ministers, and so it had remained until Sarkozy had snatched it under Fillon's nose. Or rather under Villepin's nose when he had still one or two weekends to spend there. For what Alphonse said, Fillon had never forgiven how this haven of intimacy had been taken from his hands even before he had the opportunity to enjoy it. He was always telling how that guy, referring to the president, had stolen it from Matignon. Which kept paying for it, anyway. Elena had thought later that maybe one of the reasons why Fillon ran for president was the possibility of having la Lanterne in the package. Well, he'll never have it now.

If she thinks it carefully and being honest with herself, the idea of going there is almost intimidating. No, she can retire the adjective. All has been arranged with Alphonse, in spite of the atypical of the situation. She has failed to show up with adequate footgear, and the mildly – he's ultimately indulgent, as usual - exasperated bodyguard has been obliged to provide her that pair of boots that make her trip now and then.

“Madame knows I am not enthusiast about this particular meeting”, he had said when she put the rubber boots and that green thing on “But given the insistence, I have little options”.

They cross one man running, a orange cap in his head. Elena sinks her chin and hides her face from him, in case he recognizes her. The man evidently doesn't pay them attention. They may look like they are gardeners, in their way to the limits of the park. Or maybe he's not interested enough. After Sarkozy, who had invited there his friends, Hollande had kept la Lanterne. His normal presidency – as if a guy who has a nuclear code could be normal – had his limits; he had succumbed to the charms of the house of happiness, as one wife of a Prime Minister – Alphonse had confessed he didn't remember exactly who had pronounced the phrase – called it. In contrast to the unhappiness the Élysée or the Prime Minister's official residence – nicknamed _Matignon's Hell_ , not that much for the palace itself but because of the inevitable tension a Prime Minister endures – carried with them. It became more and more unlikely that a French president could give this dominion back to the Prime Minister. And Emmanuel had never pretended to be normal, or modest. The question of giving the former hunting lodge away wasn't even raised.

As she sees the wall that surrounds the propriety her heart beats furiously against her ribs. It's not excitation but apprehension.

“We are almost there, Madame. Keep your hood on, there are always _paparazzi_ near the pavilion. They used to climb there” he pointed to one of the trees that they had left at their back “until we stopped them from doing so. Imagine, Madame, they have photographed the presidential bedroom from there, or rather the balcony. But there's the possibility that the other guests will entertain them. While they look at their cars at the main gate, we'll slip through the secret door”

 _The secret door_. At the end of its four hectares own park, the estate has a little door that communicates with the nearby park of Versailles. It's not that secret since the security services at both sides of the wall know perfectly when said door opens and by whom. Prime ministers, presidents and their guests have used it in order to go running to the park. Sometimes at the early hours in the morning. Sometimes when visitors were crowding the park, in order to exchange handshakes and impromptu conversations.

As for the other guests... Elena sighs. Yes, there are other guests today. A writer who has been friends with Emmanuel and his wife since his days of Economy Minister, a movie producer and his wife, a presenter of a talk show. Officially, Elena is just a friend, so there's no problem she makes a visit with another friends. If any image of her at the gardens comes out, this will be the excuse. Alphonse has repeated that bit to his – and hers - exhaustion.

  
Alphonse gives an ominous look she can't decipher at the little sentry house next to the brick wall. The door opens for them and Alphonse leads her into the property. Elena sees the cream-colored building in the distance, between the trees. She looks at her surroundings, biting her lip.

“Are there security cameras everywhere?” she asks.

“What do you want, Madame?” Alphonse answers, even if that wasn't actually a question. He points to a path that crosses the gardens and Elena follows his indications “And with infrared technology. It is necessary. Sometimes we have a intruder near the pavilion. A misguided runner, for example. Anything bigger than a shrew will be detected and filmed. No event is left without a register. And, if it doesn’t ends being more threatening than a shrew, then the file is destroyed. Eventually”

“Really?”, she asked, not really surprised. From the moment they had approached the presidential residence she was sure every step she made was carefully spied.

  
He shrugged. Maybe in forty years or so, her file will be discovered and used in a book about presidential favourites. She could imagine it. _On the early days of the Summer of 2019, Madame Mendieta visited the presidential residency at Versailles. We are aware of this because a police officer registered everything that day, when the soprano arrived in disguise, probably that of a gardener. The file, that should have been destroyed, was preserved for posterity because of the indiscretion of said officer, who was fed up with veiling over the security and the whims of successive presidents…_

“Really. Follow me, Madame”

She has not the time, not the mood to admire the gardens, but even so Alphonse thinks opportune to tell her certain things.

“Of course, Madame, under no circumstance you should ever speak of this visit. The press will know you are here – as a friend, it’s evident – and they’ll try to make you talk. You must ignore every question they make. Even the gardeners at this side of the wall are not the same than those of the park of Versailles. They have their park and we have our own” Alphonse has spent so much time at the service of presidents that he thinks of himself about a member of an extended family, Elena concludes “We don't have much contact, only the indispensable. Now, about the gardens…”

It seems that, anyway, the gardeners are invisible today. They don’t cross anyone in their way to the house, and, however, the soprano has the feeling someone is constantly following them. Once she even tries to stop and look behind her, but she's dissuaded by Alphonse, who, taking her arm, forces her to go forward. In other circumstances, she would have enjoyed the visit, maybe. Not today. She thinks for the tenth time she shouldn’t have come. But she has accepted the invitation, and, as awkward as the visit will be, she now must face the consequences of her decision. No one forced her to…

“… and he used to walk through the gardens with his cats on his shoulders. Poor man was so depressed“

“I beg your pardon?”

  
“Malraux. Ah, Madame was distracted again? Well, I won’t repeat that part about the American millionaire’s pets, all his birds and dogs. Probably they are still buried somewhere in the park, no one remembers exactly. I was telling you that Malraux used to walk through this garden with his beloved cats following him or standing on his shoulders. _Olympe_ and _Octave_ (2), I think they were called. He had chickens, too… they were elsewhere, apparently, to the extreme that the chauffeur had to be very careful to not hurt them”

He talks in whispers, like Malraux’s pets were an affair of state too. Maybe they are. One never knows. She feels a little lost with all this trivia about political pets.

“… And that was the spot where poor _Titus_ was buried, or so it seems. It’s impossible to really know it. He was way less fortunate than the American’s pets (3)”.

“ _Titus_? Was that another cat?”

“Oh, no. A dog. Balladur’s Irish setter. Poor thing, he died here at la Lanterne and his owners wanted him to have a proper grave. But at the end he had a spot of the park under a bush… And when Juppé arrived, not even that, since he wanted the dog out of here. Can you imagine two Prime Ministers arguing over a dead dog? Poor _Titus_ had to be exhumed again and given to his owners”

Before the soprano has the time of weighting over that definitely mean quarrel over the corpse of Balladur’s pet, the unmistakable sound of a dog panting at the other side of the hedge, just behind them. Elena can’t help to shudder, but of course the phenomenon has a logic reason behind. She has had barely the time to remember his existence when a black mass of hair jumps over the hedge and lands on the gravel, next to her legs, a stick on his mouth. _Nemo_ , of course. He jumps first on Alphonse and then turns to look at her, his tail wagging as if he was trying to decide if she is a friend or a foe.

“Don’t worry, Madame. He’s a little wild, but gentle enough”, the bodyguard says, patting the dog’s back. “Yes, I know”, he says as the dog’s moans. “Come on, Madame, normally if you are not a raven he won’t try to pursue you”.

The dog has decided she’s not hostile, and he sniffs her legs before parting from her side and running to the house, the stick still between his teeth. Elena, awkwardly trying to call his attention – in her opinion a dog is not an entirely disgusting substitute for a cat; well, that maybe sounds a little rude - has barely the time to graze the animal’s back – damp with the morning’s dew - and to look at his plate, adorned with the colours of French flag when he’s already gone. _Nemo_ disappears behind a curve, presumably darting after the birds she sees flying after exactly thirty seconds. They find the stick next to the hedge, which is still moving after the dog has jumped over it for the second time. Definitely he has no manners (4).

“It’s always the same when he’s not around”, Alphonse says as they walk to one of the lateral wings. Elena must be presentable before she can put her feet in the central part of the pavilion, the one reserved for the presidential family and friends.

***

Nothing in her past experience has prepared her for this moment.

Of course she has sung a bunch of confrontation scenes in which she usually gets the guy or she shows her infinite magnanimity and greatness of soul. Like in Donizetti's Anna Bolena. She's a soprano after all. But all these things are useless now, she knows it perfectly. Yes, it's not the first time she has an affair with a married man, but having an affair with a pianist, as famous as he may be, it's not the same than doing the same with a world leader. Much less when the wife of such man is the one that has called her to la Lanterne, early in the morning. The pianist's wife had made a phone call, insulted her and threatened to use her skin as the new element in the design of her haute couture handbags. Madame Macron, in exchange, has apparently chosen another alternative.

Which one, she still doesn`t know.

As she waits for her, she wonders what she must do. Run away? Sit down in the Louis XV sofa delicately decorated with blue motives? She regrets being here, she wonders if Emmanuel knows about this meeting. The president, in his official portrait, seems to look at her with certain concern from the wall in which the frame is hanging, not correctly leveled, not entirely straight. Elena has the feeling he would have never invited her, following his custom of never mixing his two lives. She tries to make herself more presentable; the heavy rubber boots have been replaced with black ballerinas, and her navy cotton dress has survived relatively unwrinkled to the contact with the raincoat and the early walk through the park. Since there is no mirror in the immediate surroundings, she must check herself in the screen of her phone. The dress doesn't really fit her. Maybe it's not a good choice.

“Madame Mendieta” she hears at her back “Bonjour. Would you take a cup of coffee?”

Startled, she turns to look at her lover's wife, who is impeccably but simply dressed with a white shirt and blue jeans that fit her slender figure. Her blond hair is retained in a messy bun that make her look younger. For some reason she's smiling at her, at her of all the possible individuals in this world. It's a very polite smile, not really warm. Her blue eyes examine the soprano from head to toe, and Elena feels more uncomfortable by that look than by all the infrared cameras in the garden and the walls. Is she evaluating her? When her eyes finally meet Elena's, the soprano founds no anger, no jealousy, a detail which really unsettles her. With these things, she would have a real reason to instantly hate the woman, other than being married to Emmanuel. But she seems to have chosen magnanimity and that makes her feel even worse. The president's wife sits at the sofa and calls for coffee to be served, without really waiting for her answer. The soprano is left standing, until she makes a gesture with her hand. Elena lefts herself fall in a chair in front of the sofa. Probably the skirt of her dress will be more wrinkled when she leaves it, she thinks. A whiff of the perfume Brigitte is wearing reaches her. It's his perfume, she realizes.

“I hope you didn't have many difficulties to arrive here. It's saturday, after all”

In the middle of all these things Elena had totally forgotten about the Yellow Vests and their antics. Well, almost.

“No... Madame” it sounds so strange that the younger woman has for a fleeting moment the impression of traveling back in time, to the era in which the palace that dominates the park beyond the walls was built. A benevolent queen sure of her divine right and her blood examining the qualities and defects of the new favourite of the king in order to decide if she's going to destroy, ignore or consider her unworthy of her husband. In any case to establish her dominance. “The road was pretty lonely”

The coffee is brought in the meantime, served in blue and gold delicate cups that surely belong to the national treasury or something of that style. Elena takes a sip of her own cup. It's strong and hot, almost bordering in burning. This doesn't seem to affect Brigitte. Elena leaves the precious artifact on the table next to her. She is afraid to breath next to it.

“You would have seen more movement had my husband been here instead of in some point of the Overseas Territories. But when I am alone at la Lanterne, the protection is reduced. After all, if the president's wife is hurt or attacked, that means no institutional problem. The opposite, on the other hand, would be a catastrophe” Elena raises her head, genuinely alarmed; it's difficult to say if Brigitte is joking or not ”I am very direct, Madame Mendieta. Everyone uses to say so. You are wondering why I invited you to come here. By the way, I read you reached a settlement with the Opéra?”

“Yes. I lost my legal battle before it really started”, Elena says “As for the invitation, I really do wonder...”

“But I must confess that I half expected you would refuse it” Brigitte tilts her head, and looks at her again with that weird expression that has no trace of anger or jealousy. She, too, leaves the coffee cup, but on the silver tray “You didn't, so much better that way. Someone told me that I had to be careful to catch all the butterflies”.

“The _butterflies_?” Elena is familiar with the term and its meaning in this context but makes the question anyway. It's better than trying to disappear in her seat.

“Yes, Madame Mendieta. These young things that flutter around powerful men. It's how Bernadette Chirac called them, an appropriate word in my opinion. My husband has had his own share of butterflies but, unlike Madame Chirac's one, never paid attention to them” she leans forward “With your exception” she raises her hand, in case Elena wants to reply, even if the soprano is still too intimidated to do so “Oh, of course, I know that you met him before he was powerful. But you only pursued my husband when he had already won an election. So, as I told you, Madame, and since I am very direct I have no option but classify you as one of the butterflies. I am not sure of which kind”

Said in that way, it would seem her interest is purely entomological, a voice in Elena's head comments. But she doesn't dare to voice that thought.

“What do you mean, Madame?”, she replies instead of trying to be witty.

“Some of these creatures are attracted by power. I don't know if I must classify you among them. Given the circumstances of your meeting with my husband the first option wouldn't be that category. Some of these are attracted by celebrity. But you were already famous, even if not as famous as my husband is...” she makes a little pause “And of course we have the amorous kind of butterflies who thinks they are living a great romance” she looks at Elena, as if she wanted to read her thoughts “I am not even sure you fit in that last category either, Madame Mendieta”.

“I still don't know why...”

“Am I so interested in which kind of butterfly you are?” Brigitte smiled again, the same polite, not at all warm smile “See, Madame, when my husband told me about you I gave him entire liberty, as far as he was careful enough. As we discovered later there were some weak links in the plan. Yes, I gave him liberty to examine his... as I called them, feelings. Do you have an idea of how many difficulties we have overcome, Madame Mendieta?”  
“I have read...”

“No, Madame, you have no idea. Not the slightest idea” she frowns a little now “I trust my husband, which may seem strange to your eyes given the situation in which the three of us are being put”

“I don't find that...” strange, she's going to say.

“There's no love if there's no liberty, no?” Brigitte answers lively.

“ _Non v'ha amor, se non v'è libertà_ ” (5), Elena mutters “Not a flattering parallel if Madame allows me to... _The Duke of Mantua!_ That is not the character I would link Emm... your husband to”

“Ah, Verdi unties your tongue, Madame Mendieta; I wonder which character fits him most according to you. No, it's not a parallel, we may agree in that. The problem, Madame, is that if I trust him I can't confide in your good intentions. I don't know you enough. I am not sure he knows you enough. And he's certainly taking his time with his...” she looks at her again “feelings. No, I don't trust you, Madame, but I am forced to coexist with you, for the moment at least. That's one of the reasons why I invited you today”.

She stands, walking to the wall where the portrait is, pushing it to the right with her fingers to set it straight, her back turned to the singer.

“I confess I don't understand, Madame”

The president's wife doesn't look at her while answering.

“Regardless of the category of butterfly which you belong to, Madame, and in a way that it's beyond my mind, it's evident you are a part of his happiness right now, and there are few things in the World that matter me most. So if anything, this visit will reinforce your little cover up. Who could tell you are not a friend of the family if you are seen at la Lanterne while he's not here, in the company of other friends?”

“But nobody's supposed to be aware...”

“Oh, maybe you'll find a photo or two later in gossip magazines, nothing that you haven't seen previously” then she turns her head to look at the soprano, her fingers still caressing the frame “Everything will be controlled. About that, if it does happen, you'll make no comment, of course. You already said enough in that Italian talk show”.

Her voice now turns lower.

“So go on with your great romance. But if you ever try to take profit of the situation, out of spite of ambition, if you talk too much or try to harm him or his career, Madame, be very aware of this, I'll know it immediately, and I'll act in consequence. My capacity for forgiveness has its limits”

And her polite, not entirely warm smile widens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as I said the chapter evolved in a different way as I was writting it. Personally I try to avoid my characters centering their conversations entirely in "the affair", since all of them have their own interests, even the two EMs, but in this case these two women have one thing in common, and there was no way to avoid it. Did I succeed? We'll see. And now the notes.
> 
> (1) All these stories come from having read a book or two about this palace. Yes, research is fun.  
> (2) Malraux (who lost his sons tragically in an accident) was a well known cat lover and yes, the photos at la Lanterne (which wasn't such secretive until Sarkozy decided to move there) with his pets on his shoulders do exist. For example this one: https://www.pinterest.es/pin/308778118182803792/  
> (3) "The American" here is James Gordon Bennett Junior. The story about Balladur's poor dog is true.  
> (4) Elena being (unlike me, a dog person but not entirely radical) a cat person but not an entirely radical one, I went for the "not entirely disgusting subsitute for a cat" line.  
> (5) Rigoletto, Act I. The Duke of Mantua is a young noble and a total jerk, serial seducer of women, who he later drops unceremoniously. Not flattering paralell indeed.
> 
> ...and that's all for today. Next will mark probably the end of social distance for our two main characters.  
> Feel free, as usual, to comment.


	43. Doch niemand hat's geseh'n

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of football and wooden tables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter which has come not as early as I wanted. but here we are. As usual forgive me for my mispellings and gramatical oddities. Chapter has end notes, as you may know, in order to clarify some references. Others are there so you can catch them on your own! Enjoy.

**XLIII**

**Doch niemand hat's geseh'n**

Die Treppe hinunter gesprungen  
Komm ich in vollem Lauf,  
Die Trepp' empor gesprungen  
Kommt er und fängt mich auf,  
Und wo die Trepp' so dunkel ist,  
Haben wir vielmals uns geküßt,  
Doch niemand hat's geseh'n.  
Ich komm in den Saal gegangen  
Da wimmelt's von Gästen bunt,  
Wohl glühten mir die Wangen,  
Wohl glühte mir auch der Mund,  
Ich meint es säh mir's jeder an,  
Was wir da mit einander getan,  
Doch niemand hat's geseh'n.

( _I come jumping downstairs_  
 _Rushing headlong,_  
 _He comes jumping upstairs_  
 _And catches me,_  
 _And we have often kissed each other_  
 _Just where it is dark on the stairs,_  
 _But nobody noticed._  
 _I came walking into the ballroom_  
 _Teeming with brightly-dressed guests,_  
 _My cheeks all aglow_  
 _And my mouth was all aglow too,_  
 _I thought everyone would look at me,_  
 _At what we had done with each other there,_  
 _But nobody noticed_ ).

RICHARD STRAUSS, _Begegnung_

**July**

> **LA BOHÈME, Lyon.-** (…) We were, as our dear readers will be, no doubt, a little surprised by the last moment cancellation of Mrs. Stuart as Musetta for the Bohème at the Opéra de Lyon. Our sources from the board say that the soprano wasn’t entirely satisfied by the production, that had her dressing as a doppelganger of Louise Brooks, instead of a fashionable lady from the reign of Louis Philippe. And that, given she had only a secondary role, she wouldn’t bother to put on with it. In any case, the Opéra took a rabbit out of their hat in the shape of Madame Mendieta, who was a very vivacious replacement, a task in which she has become an expert. Rumours say that these days she has been preparing for a complete recording of Verdi’s Aida, this time without being the second option of the label. We, at Palcoscenico, and even awaiting confirmation of said recording sessions – being naturally sceptical -, wish her luck in this new incorporation to her, already, varied repertoire.

  
The interview before the match was getting to an end. There have been question of the watershed moment that this Women’s World Cup would be for that sport, of equality of pay and of his own past as amateur left back; at his back the fans of the two teams were slowly starting to fill the stadium. Yes, the organization had been a success, and the matches were getting good ratings on TV. They even got a promise from him: that he would play in a charity event, left back again. He wondered if he really would resist playing a half, or even an entire match. He wondered, too, if this would be possible, or convenient, at all. Imagine the French president swearing at the pitch and playing a bit dirty. Yes, imagine that scene. Well, after all, as some of his predecessors in office had said, promises only linked those who believed in them. There were other things to think about on this warm summer day.

  
_People making manoeuvres behind his back, for example._

  
He couldn’t take off from his mind the way in which Gérard Collomb, his ex-minister and mayor of this city, had looked at him that same morning while asking if he had forgiven him. They were at his office at the city hall, the mayor sitting on his chair, he looking through the window at the courtyard. It was like their roles had inverted and he was the host here, receiving the older man. Although after all, he was the president. Which mean he was the master there too.

  
“I have wondered that often”, Gérard had said “Do you still hold that against me?”

  
Forgiven him for planting the seeds of doubt in interviews before his resignation. Forgiven him for giving a blow to his authority last year, when things were getting difficult, and leaving his post even without the delicacy of waiting for a replacement. Even Hulot had been more civilized in that respect. All while the Prime Minister was at the Assemblée Nationale stating that the Interior Minister had seen his confidence reinforced after the President had refused his resignation.

  
“You have doubts because it’s not Édouard who has come”, he had said, without answering the mayor’s question “You’ll only have to look at his eyes to know that forgiveness is too big a word. In his opinion at least”. That in case Édouard wanted to acknowledge his existence; one does not easily forgive to be the Prime and the Interior Minister at the same time.

  
“So it’s a no”.

  
“What do you want? You left the government after an extremely difficult period, in the eve of one even worse, and you ask me these things like you didn’t remember…” there was a hint of mockery there, and he knew Gérard would catch the meaning instantly.

  
“Anyway”, the older man said, looking afar “Would you back me for next year’s elections?” that had been the reason the whole time, it had been said, for his abrupt departure. He wanted to keep Lyon safe for him. It had seemed more or less sure that he would be re elected last year, but it seemed more and more unlikely now. And he would talk to Gérard’s rival later. Just in case.

  
“It’s not the last time that you’ll see me here before the municipal elections, so we’ll see what happens. “By the way, Brigitte sends you her regards, but she said that you should stop talking about your conversations on the gossip press”

  
“I only said that we still talk each other, and that she still calls me _mon Gégé_ ” and he opened his arms, as if saying and both things are true. Yes, they were. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t annoying.

  
“Exactly. She thinks its ridiculous and I am sorry to tell you that I agree with that” his voice softened, smiled to the man that had had his confidence at had betrayed it. You must have friends even in hell, someone had said him. He didn’t want to totally discourage him “not that I am asking you to stop talking to my wife. She would like to be here today”  
Speaking of people making manoeuvres behind his back.

  
The crowd was already noisy and the music came deafening from the loudspeakers when she had come running upstairs from the place in which she was supposed to be seated, next to a bunch of noisy fans that, as he learnt later, had almost sprayed her with her beers before they entered the stadium; he had come as soon as the interview with Franceinfo was wrapped up, without that much rush, delayed by the many hands tended to him, and the many selfies that were asked, more than any of his usual detractors could imagine anyway – did they really believe in their own caricatures?-, and preceded by two of his bodyguards who needed to be convinced themselves of everything being safe.

  
“She will go to the conference room, second floor”, Alphonse said as soon as they had left Franceinfo’s studio and they started to go downstairs “There’s another room next to it, an office according to the floor plan, but it’s closed. And empty”.

  
The meeting place had been decided in the last moment. With a side glance Emmanuel noticed that Alphonse's hair was getting even more grey. And thinner. He wondered if he had something to do with that.

  
“We barely had the time to make a recognition”, he said, clearly uncomfortable. The president again felt bad for him, but to be honest only for a fleeting second. A recognition to check there was no one else – besides the lady in question - hiding on the conference room, or the office next to it. Imagine the French president being caught, or worse, being attacked, during a tryst in a stadium. Or anything of that kind. No one wanted an ending _à la Felix Faure_ (1).

  
He saw her at the end of the hallway, wearing a red t-shirt and blue jeans, her head emerging from the door of that conference room, her lips curved in a mischievous smile and her foot tapping the floor, betraying her impatience. He decided to annoy her a little and deliberately slowed his pace, closing the distance between them as if they had all the time in this world and entered the room, slamming the door behind him. She fell into his embrace, or rather she threw herself between them, her bare arms surrounding his neck, her fingers running through his hair and her mouth, smooth and warm, covering his own. His arms surrounding her waist, he gently made her walk backwards, until they were stopped by the table in the centre of the room. A wooden, heavy thing. She sat on top of it, without parting her lips from his, in a scene that would have been silent, if not for the cheering of the stadium that was slowly filling for the final of the women's world cup.

  
It was an uncomfortable place, that heavy, wooden table, an inside voice told him with certain irony. Cliché, as her legs surrounded him and there was barely anything left but the taste of her mouth, the feel of her tongue which was already searching for his own, avid and demanding, and the softness of the fabric of her t-shirt, belonging to a team that never arrived to the final – neither did his own team, for that matter, but he would think about that later -, fabric so soft that it wouldn't resist the strength of his hand if he decided to tear it apart... Besides, and if even Elena didn't seem to care, it looked a bit... Ridicule? Was that the word? She leaning back to lie on the dark wood? He climbing on her? Imagine the scene. Yes, it was an uncomfortable place, that table, but it was becoming more and more irrelevant as the pressure of her thighs became more and more urgent.

  
Then, as he was going to unfast his belt, the thoughts about the comical aspects of the scene quickly vanished, an unexpected intrusion came in the shape of a loudspeaker which was connected to the stadium's system, and the booming start of a song startled them both. She broke their kiss and looked beyond his shoulder as if she had expected to find the entire French population of photographers in the threshold of the door, and, after realizing the latter remained closed, laughter started to bubble in her throat until she couldn't contain it anymore and it filled the room. So infectious was her laugh that he had to laugh himself.

  
“I have never liked that song”, he sighed. He sat back. Definitely the atmosphere was ruined, at least for the moment.

  
“Ah, it's a shame, because I did like how this scene was developing” she looked at him, still lying on her back, her hair trapped somewhere under the weight of her body. He didn't answer as his thumb went from her chin to her lips, and then back to her jaw and caressed her neck. But it seemed unlikely to go on where they had left, at least for now. Not with all that noise outside, and in such place. She then decided to seat on the table, at his side, her arms surrounding her legs. Definitely it was an uncomfortable place. “But I agree about the music” then, after a pause, she added. “I didn't expect all this”.

  
“The music? Your Musetta...?”

  
Musetta the temptress - or temptation herself (2) - as the libretto dubs her, even if with a good heart, instead of the heroine Mimì, who dies at the end of the opera, as custom requires. Musetta, the funnier, but considerably less important role.

  
“Not a bad one for a last place replacement, even if it's not appropriate for me to say so. Apparently the Opéra de Lyon wanted me because the other soprano wasn't available... and I am younger” this was something that bothered her, apparently. Understandable “Their Mimi didn't need a replacement, she looked way healthier than me, and she's playing a sick woman” he frowned at the word _Mimi_ “No, I was expecting a scolding, or something like that” she glanced at him.

  
“A scolding”, Emmanuel repeated; they could try later, if she wanted to, even if that seemed a bit extreme. But evidently Elena wasn't talking about that kind of scolding “For... the photos at la Lanterne”.

  
He had been on his plane back from his official visit when a pair of photos of that Saturday's guests to the presidential secondary residence had emerged. Closer, Gala or Voici had published them, with qualities that varied from bad to infamous. But she had been clearly identifiable, only that her name was mixed with those of the other guests and, since he wasn't there, the commentary about their friendship had been relatively subdued.

  
“I am not sure why I did accept the invitation” she mumbled.

  
“It's not your fault”, he said a bit abrutply. His eyes wondered through the conference room and fixated in an object he really disliked: a poster of the Olympique de Lyon. It was perfectly natural it was there, but he could add this to the list of things he didn't like about this stadium, apart from Marseille losing there the final of the Europe League last year... against the Atlético – which was, of course, one of the things he didn't like from Madrid. Then he softened and looked at her “But it was a smart thing to do I guess”, he said. With that, he wanted to imply the matter was closed until further notice.

  
It had caused an argument between him and Brigitte nonetheless when he had discovered the photos and guessed who had leaked them. At the end of the day they had settled their differences. No one outside their marriage could have plenty understood that. Even so, it had been the kind of behind-your-back thing that he would find difficult to forgive in any other individual that wasn't wife, but with her he had done almost instantly. Or rather several hours after their argument. Double standards or love, or a mix of the two. It depended on whom was telling the story.

  
She left his side, turning her back on him, taking a sudden interest in that Olympique de Lyon photo (3).

  
“This is a conversation I wasn't exactly looking forward to have right now”, he said. He left the table on his turn, surrounding her waist with his arms. She seemed a little tense, but then relaxed a bit in the circle of his embrace; he caressed the shirt of the Spanish national team she was wearing, red with blue and yellow details in the neck and the short sleeves, the coat of arms embroidered under a lone star. His finger wandered over the royal crown, the columns of Hercules with Charles V's motto Plus Ultra – his son Philip II had had a better one (4), but it hadn't been retained in Spain's coat of arms -, the lion of the ancient kingdom of León, the stripes of Aragon, and the chains of Navarre, and the tower of Castile, or the pomegranate of the last Moorish kingdom All the emblems of the territoires that formed her country. Then he looked at her eyes again, as his hand ventured a little lower. “That's not a bad continuation for the scene”, she admitted as her lips parted again in a smile that showed her teeth.

  
But there was a knock of the door and they were interrupted again.

  
“I am sorry Monsieur le Président but the match is about to start”, his bodyguard said at the other side. The soprano's smile evolved into an almost comical grimace.

  
“Not as sorry as I am probably” he muttered as he parted from her “Well, I'll see you later at the hotel, after the match.”

  
He had barely touched the door handle when he turned back at her, with a last, not entirely irrelevant question.

  
“By the way, for which team are you rooting for?”

  
“Do you remember that thing about the underdog?” she answered. “The Americans have won this cup several times already”.

  
“Ah, the Netherlands then. European solidarity, I can relate to that” and he added a second later “And the Americans, they kicked out both our teams”.

  
“They don't entirely deserve it, the Netherlands I mean. I still remember 2010. But yes, let's call it like that. European solidarity. But I will hide it, since I am sitting next to, if I remember correctly enough, Madison and Robert from North Carolina. A charming pair, and I say this seriously. Just will sit and enjoy the match, I guess. And tell them later that I find some consolation in having your team kicked out by the champions in case the US wins”.

  
And not having Donald there was a relief. Is not that he could have come to see a team of young women that despised him overtly – he had no actual idea of what opinion Captain Rapinoe had of him, but he would be the only President she would meet if her team won – play that match.

  
“The same goes for me. But there's no consolation in not arriving or not winning the final. You know it perfectly. See you later then” he smiled, gave her a soft kiss “And cheer a little for me when I give the cup to the winner. I am afraid I am in quite the hostile territoire”.

  
And he left the room, returning to his seat when the match was about to start. It was better to have Mbappé in the next row of seats than having Madison and Robert from North Carolina, with all the due respect to these two individuals. But he felt the eyes of his ex minister on his back, a pair of seats behind him and Infantino.

  
It was like they were still on Gérard's office, with him asking for his forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And there we go for the notes:  
> 1) I have mentioned Félix Faure in other chapters, and also the way in which he dies at l'Élysée as, suppossedly, his lover was giving him a blowjob.  
> 2) Il suo nome è Musetta... cognome tentazione! (Her name is Musetta, her surname Temptation), as her lover Marcello dubs her during Act II of La Bohème.  
> 3) Now, as everyone knows Monsieur le Président can't like that much the "other" Olympique.  
> 4) Philip II's motto was Non Sufficit Orbis (The World is not Enough), which made an interesting "travel" to the popular culture thanks to an aristocratic English family and to... Ian Fleming.
> 
> So that was all for today. Feel free to comment and criticise. Until the next one. :)


	44. Comme des flêches de feu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one about things that shouldn't happen in a crowded room.  
> (But can happen later)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, and it won't be the last this weekend. The perks of quarantine, again!  
> Well, as usual, English is not my first language, and you already know you must forgive my mistakes. I learn, but there is always something that escapes my attention.  
> If not, enjoy. Our two main characters were disturbed during their reunion at the football stadium so I took mercy on them. They have to share some time together now and then, the poor things.  
> As usual, you'll find some notes at the end that may end being useful.  
> Without further ado, enjoy.

**XLIV**   
**Comme des flêches de feu**

_Et de l’ombre de ses voiles_   
_Partent les traits de sa voix_   
_Come des flêches de feu!_

(… and from the shadow of her veils  
Her voice flashes out  
Like fiery arrows!)

MASSENET, Thaïs, Act II

“That’s, by far, the most obscene thing we have done until now”, she says with a contented sigh, laying on her stomach, her face veiled by her disordered hair as his hand wanders down her back. On the street, beyond the gardens, someone is playing Massenet. The _Méditation_ from _Thaïs_ (1), what else. The farewell of the courtesan to the carnal pleasures to enter a life of poverty and saintiness. What a fool, that Thaïs. She hears him chuckle in response to her words as his long fingers go further and further, lower and lower; together with the light breeze that it’s coming from the open window – shutters and curtains are half closed, just in case – his caresses make her feel really pampered, besides of deliciously lazy. As if she could remain hidden in that room a day or two. No worries about her career choices, no second thoughts about singing _Aida_ on studio – let alone to sing that on a stage! – , or about her doubts and insecurity as the date of the recording sessions approaches. She wish she had no thoughts about his own duties as president or as a husband of another fortunate mortal. Well, she’s not inside his head, but she’s pretty sure he’s focused now in what happens in the room.

  
Yes; of that, she's pretty sure, and it's a source of pleasure and pride. From the moment they have been left alone – she has come hidden, as usual – he has been hers and only hers. His wife, the French Republic, the rest of the World are outside waiting but this night she has not to share him with any of them. No matter how much he loves the first, dedicates his life and his energy to the second and ambitions to be determinant in the latter's history. No, she's not inside his head and he'll be always elusive in certain aspects, but she knows enough about these things. She may be his first deviation from marital fidelity but sometimes throws himself in this affair like a convert would adopt his new faith. Ardently and without much restraint.

In that respect, he's the opposite of Thaïs. But Thaïs was a fool after all.

Still, Aida’s shadow is an unwelcomed, overwhelming intrusion in her thoughts; the unmistakable, impossible to describe fear of the singing when the choice of repertoire is wrong and leads inevitably to decline and vocal crisis and, in the worst case scenario, a total loss of the Voice. Something that naturally haunts her now and then, it's in her nature as an opera singer. What happens after everything related to the Voice is lost. Masterclasses. Homages. Reclusion, maybe; performing on stage, never. Isn't that a terrible thought?

(And how is for people like _him_ ? What happens when the presidency is over. Conferences, official ceremonies, little more. She remembers how a Spanish ex-prime minister ironically referred to himself as an antique Chinese jar in a little apartment (2). It was there, it was costly and something of value. It was also unpractical and would be broken when one of the new kids would accidentally push it with an elbow. Was the same for French presidents? Probably, but with more hatred in between. She doesn't like the thought anyway)  
It’s a fleeting shadow to her joy. Maybe his own joy is also shadowed by something. It’s difficult to know anyway. Elena pushes the Ethiopian princess back in the depths of her mind, she can think about her tomorrow. She has previously kicked the white sheets away – she doesn't care if they end tangled on the floor - to enjoy that unexpected freshness on her skin after a long, suffocating day in Lyon and that frustrating encounter on the conference room. But this night has made up for everything, she says triumphant to herself, for all the frustrating encounters in the world and for all the days spent apart. Maybe for the days that they will spend apart after this night? Well, things can always be improved.

For example, they could be far away in that tropical landscape they saw once at that apartment. Only for a while, since there are not opera houses in Paradise. The time of a vacation. Or they could be in that conventional fantasy she had about blond-haired children playing at the gardens of l'Élysée with an already aging Nemo. No; that last one is not a valid thought right now. Certain things can't be mixed. She pushed back them in the depths of her mind, too, the imaginary children and the very real dog. Outside, the violinist has stopped playing Massenet. Maybe gone home.

  
As his fingertips brush her lower spine she slightly raises her hips and spreads her legs invitingly, but he chuckles again and his hand goes back to the starting point: the back of her neck, where he softly pulls her hair away, so she can enjoy the breeze there too. It feels fine and refreshing, but she moans in frustration because that is not the place where she had expected him. He's never where one expects, it's part of his charm. And part of why he's exasperating too. This is followed by Emmanuel leaning and whispering to her ear, breath warming her skin:

“ _Not yet_ ” a kiss on her shoulder and his hand leaves her back. Another moan from her. “I am deeply sorry, apart from extremely flattered by your eagerness but you have to learn some patience. I think this is the moment for a little rest” he lies at her side, on his stomach too, apparently very amused at her. He recovers the white sheet from the floor as if the fact the piece of cloth is in the floor is unbearable. Everything smells of his fragrance. The sheets, the pillows, herself. She's not uncomfortable with that.

  
“Pot, meet kettle. As if Monsieur's hands were resting a moment ago”; she groans “I am very aware of what patience is, thank you very much; I've waited for being together like this for months, example given” she turns her head to look at him “And now I'm going to take advantage of this time”.

  
The time before he goes on vacation to Bregançon – it's unlikely she's ever going to put her feet there – and she records that fucking _Aida_ before starting her tour of Summer festivals. So yes, his is precious time for her and she wants to take profit of it.

  
“Taking advantage of _me_ ” he says; falsely offended, falsely scandalized. Not actually looking serious in his outrage with that mischievous light in his blue eyes and all that dishevelled hair. She wishes he wouldn’t cut it so often.

  
“What do you want? You are never on the same place, I think you have the soul of a...” she struggled with her words, trying to find something witty that would amuse him “flying carpet”.

  
Mission accomplished, he emits a little laugh.

  
“What a extravagant thing to say. That's very funny coming from you, I spend most of the time in France. Whereas you spend your life flying from one to other corner of the world. And, I insist, taking advantage of me whenever we meet.”

  
“You didn't seem to show contrariety a moment ago; from my point of view anyway”

  
“Given how you looked from my point of view, I didn't want to disappoint you or hurt your feelings” he argued mockingly; no, he hasn't disappointed her so far in that particular domain “And it's the first time I hear someone calling a simple selfie obscene” then he corrects himself “... at least one with two perfectly dressed individuals that are purported to be friends and who are looking very innocent while posing for the camera”. He didn't mention that he had experience with what happened with selfies including himself and half dressed individuals.

  
It was true; after the match had ended and the trophy given to the victors - the Americans again naturally, not that she had really expected any other outcome – and she congratulated Madison and Robert from North Carolina – not that they really cared, they were busy celebrating the victory of their team – she had darted her way to the doors of the VIP zone where a little post-match so-called reception would be held. There, thanks to Alphonse that offered a resistance promptly won – more easy than expected, maybe due to his own initiative – she stepped in the reception, with another celebrities in more or less informal attire. Even he looked informal, since he had taken off his jacket again and the sleeves of his white shirt – the embroidered initials clearly visible - were rolled up. There she had tapped his shoulder and, with her best and more innocent smile asked him for a selfie, to post it in her Instagram account. He turned to look at her, visibly surprised – something that he managed to hide the second after.

  
As for the people that surrounded them in that scene, their faces are a blur to her, their names unimportant, their presence almost entirely unwelcome. Only the fact that they were in front of each other, in the same room, without having to hide, was relevant.

  
Yes, he had looked at her surprised at her boldness; of course, she was supposed now to be a friend of the family, a friend from long date. Considering all the antecedents, asking about that was logical, fair or even sensible? It was something that occupied her mind later – for a handful of minutes, to be exact -; in any case, he looked at her arching his eyebrows, as his lips curved in a slow smile and he took the phone from her hands. An arm around his shoulders; nothing more chaste than that, even if the way in which her hand slowly slided down his back had nothing of chaste.

  
“What were you thinking while moving your hand in that way in the middle of the reception?” he had said later, once they were alone in the room. His tie had been taken off his neck even before the door was properly closed.

  
“And you, Emmanuel? What kind of thought that gesture inspired in you?” her fingers curled around his belt.

  
“The kind of idea that can't be put into practice in the middle of a room full of people and with an ex-minister looking at us”, he had answered as she unbuckled it without taking her eyes from his.

  
She had felt his muscles tense as he snapped the photo himself – he had developed a remarkable ability to do that in a record time with an incredible variety of devices - without the least hesitation and involved her in trivial talk about her next projects. Then, as Emmanuel went off to talk with another group, she glanced sideways at him while uploading it. Chus wouldn’t approve of the move – he didn’t, and her Whatsapp was instantly filled with angry messages from her community manager in which the words _pero serás gilipollas_ (3) abounded, a rarity coming from him, so devoted – but she did it anyway, adding the legend “With my friend the French President”. In three languages. Emphasis on friend.

  
“But” the singer had said, as he grabbed the hem of her football shirt “it's not that different to what the Croatian president did that time when you all were with your whole national team” she had put her arms up so he could pull it off “Don't tell me you had similar thoughts about her”.

  
He had taken her chin between his fingers, eyebrows arched.

  
“No.”

  
His thumb had caressed her bottom lip, which trembled. She sent the image of the Croatian president – who maybe had had a different opinion and/ or expectations about that evening of 2018 – back in the depths in her mind, preceding Aida, the tropical landscape or the blond children playing with _Nemo_. It was becoming a crowded place, her mind.

  
Notifications of the most varied kind ensued after she posted the image. But no one could take away from her the pleasure of openly smiling at the camera with his arm around her shoulders. Instead of that shot snapped at Bastille, or of stolen photos next to the Grand Palais, or of that mediatic manoeuvre orchestrated by Brigitte and Mimi. Together at everyone's view. A satisfaction that was almost obscene; hence her words.

  
“And besides, it hasn’t been commented that much” she said, placing her hand on his chest. She enjoyed feeling his heart, feeling how it was beating “Apart from the usual suspects that gave me ideas for tonight”.

  
“For example?” he knows perfectly well which kind of comment Elena is talking about.

  
Her breath is pure fire as she answers to his question.

  
“ _Suck him harder_ ”, she purrs to his ear, after getting closer to him and breathing next to his neck as she says it, her hair falling on their faces and her hand reaching between his legs. An advise from Instagram that she had followed faithfully. Well, it's not Baudelaire or anything of that kind; it's not even Philip Hensher (4). Elena doubts, nevertheless, that he's stopping her to deride because she's turned suddenly vulgar. But his long fingers trap her wrist preventing her to arrive to her destination, as he shakes his head, smiling.

  
“You know, I am not against encores but since you are so impatient how about starting a new entire movement right now...” he says as he gently pushes her and makes the soprano lie on her back. His hand is wandering again and stroking her breasts, her ribs and her belly. A touch on her knees and she spreads her legs again; she swallows with anticipation as fingertips draw a line, up and down her belly, and suddenly stop under her navel. She opens one of her eyes, in a silent question. Why to stop now? A slow smile parts his lips. “I'll take that look as a positive critic of this idea” the finger moves down a centimetre or two.

  
“Yes” she whispers, and closes that eye again. Putting her hands under her head, she just waits to feel these fingers inside her, a good prelude for later. Instead, she gasped when, after another pause – for dramatism? She has not the time to think about that – she feels his breath and his tongue.

  
He's never where she expects him, and it's one of his charms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a relatively short chapter but intense. Next is already written and will be longer, but with less heat. Again, for the notes:
> 
> 1) Thaïs is a work by Jules Massenet, inspired by Anatole France's novel about Saint Thaïs of Alexandria, a former courtesan. In the opera she converts to Christianism after the insistence of Athanaël, a Cenobite monk. She leaves behind her life of luxury and her many lovers and retires to a convent where she dies. Athanaël discovers too late his own lust for the Courtesan and it's left alone with his unfulfilled desire when she dies. The Méditation with its soloist violin is no doubt the most known part of this opera. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zhFcBGQLehw  
> As for the name of the chapter, it comes from this little Terzett from act II: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skHKUCcZUTY  
> 2) The one who came with this metaphore was Felipe González, socialist Prime Minister of Spain between 1982 and 1996  
> 3) Spanish insults and/or swearings are better left untraslated (besides, it's impossible, haha).  
> 4) Hensher was the librettist for Thomas Adès' chamber opera "Powder her face", premiered in 1995. The subject of the opera is Margaret Campbell, Duchess of Argyll and also known as "Dirty Duchess". The libretto contains a explicit mention to a blowjob.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Feel free to comment and/or criticize. The next is coming soon I promise. :)


	45. Il segreto per esser felici

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On games that you shouldn't try at home  
> (At least not without supervision of an adult; do opera singers count as such? Discuss).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you that this week has been... productive, to say so. Well, once more forgive me for the possible mistakes and extravagances my autocorrector can't detect. Notes are at the end, in case you have some doubts. Enjoy.

**XLV**   
**Il segreto per esser felici**

_Il segreto per esser felici_   
_So per prova e l'insegno agli amici_   
_Sia sereno, sia nubilo il cielo,_   
_Ogni tempo, sia caldo, sia gelo,_   
_Scherzo e bevo, e derido gl'insani_   
_Che si dan del futuro pensier._   
_Non curiamo l'incerto domani,_   
_Se quest'oggi n'è dato a goder._

(The secret of happiness I know by experience,  
and I teach it to my friends  
Whether the sky is blue or cloudy  
in any weather, hot or cold,  
I joke and drink, and laugh at the fools  
who worry about their future.  
Let's forget about tomorrow  
If we can enjoy this day)  
DONIZETTI, Lucrezia Borgia, Act II

“Juliette. _Je veux vivre dans ce rêve_ ”, Piotr the bass announced, looking at the piece of paper he had just extracted from the hat. A fit of laughter ensued as the man sang a Juliette that could have been related to an ogre (1).

When the Internet connexion definitely went down and they were told by the keeper of the manor – the executive chief of the record company had a certain tendency to host the singers of the recordings he produced in the estate he owned, but he rarely stayed with them during these days and the rest of people working on the recording, or even their community managers, had to sleep at hotels in the nearest town - that they wouldn't recover it until next day, someone proposed, half joking, half seriously, that they reunited in the library and play a game. Olga had arched her eyebrows, wondering which kind of game that would be, but preferring to keep silence until it was clear. During her career, she had seen many kind of things, and some of them had been called game at some point. For a while, she weighted the possibility of staying where she was: in the room that she shared with Elena during their stay in the manor, reading another work by Wilkie Collins.

People could see her, maybe, as fundamentally naïve and good hearted, too pure to be aware of certain things. But she didn't see herself as having the littlest hint of naïveté left and wasn't convinced of having a better heart than average in normally constituted human beings. As for her eyes being too chaste for having seen certain things, this was a common thought in those who had never struggled while at the wrong side of the Iron Curtain like she had done during her childhood and teenagehood.

  
It was curious how people seemed to think that being kind, or considerate, was an equivalent or being weak or downright stupid. But she was stronger than she seemed, she always had been. And disagreed with these opinions. Why should one become bitter, when one could become understanding?

However Elena had insisted in that she should join instead of breathlessly following Miss Gwilt's schemes, or being impatient because she wasn't able to download the last video her mother had sent of the singing contest – their canary _Sergei_ had won again - it turned out that the game in question was a pretty innocent thing. Or so it seemed at the beginning. When they finally went to the library Suzanne, the soprano who was singing the Priestess in the recording (2), was sitting on a blue sofa she had pushed next to the fireplace, had leaned over the coffee table, writing names of opera characters and their main – in most cases – arias or duets in little pieces of paper and putting them in a hat.

  
“We'll take a piece of paper each one, by turns, until there's no one left. Either of the papers or of us!” she said giggling as she was explaining the rules she had just made up. There were bottles of wine on the table, that someone had the detail of covering with a table cloth “It doesn't matter what's written there, if you take the piece of paper from the hat, you have to sing it”...

“... And every time one of us has to sing something that it's outside our voice type, we all take a shot”; Hermann, the baritone, finished the sentence for her with a grin, walking into the library by another door. He carried several glasses with him, sure of winning that night. “I had to spice up a little the original game, which was totally dry”.

  
“What happens if the aria belongs to our voice type?” Olga asked.

  
“Two shots” the baritone grinned “Three for a duet”.

  
“And the two last singers who intervened are the ones who sing it”.

  
“Given the rules, we are all going to drink a bit too much tonight”, the tenor said, pushing the other loveseat next to the coffee table. If the keeper of the manor was somewhere in her room, what she would think of them? Would she be forced to clean after they had done a mess of the place? Wouldn't be that unfair? She felt bad for whoever had to put the library on a decent state again “Oh, Olga, don't look at me that way, we'll clean that mess later ourselves”

  
Elena had crossed her arms for a second or two, as if she was meditating about her self-admitted incapacity to deal with too much alcohol. If that was the case, said meditation didn’t last much. Maybe she just wanted to forget her panic attack before the recording sessions. Then she had said:

  
“It looks fun! Can I add some of these?” she asked to the other soprano, with an enthusiasm that seemed a bit forced. She was promptly handed a black rolling pen by Suzanne and she started to write too, kneeling in front of the coffee table, her head leaning like that of a little girl. There would be no recording session the next day, and they had a weekend ahead them. Whether the wireless connection was or not repaired she seemed determined to forget the moments in which, yesterday, just before the recording sessions started, panic had invaded her. It had been fortunate that they were alone.

  
“ _It's too heavy, Olga. I shouldn't have accepted. I can't do this_ ” and she had repeated it during five minutes, as if that was a _leitmotiv_. She had been so nervous that four takes were required until she decided her _Ritorna vincitor_ was relatively acceptable for her. And even so...

  
She had melted into tears of impotence as the mezzo tried to comfort her. The owner of the company had imposed her as Amneris, even if her former manager and now thorn in her side Olivia Blackwood had tried to veto her. The same that had convinced Elena to record that role she didn't want in the first place. Mentally, Olga had insulted another human being, Mrs. Blackwood, wishing her a very nasty flu at least. It was something that never had happened to her in her life, and she wasn't proud of herself or comfortable with this novelty.

  
On the other side, singers – even with drinking games and all that - were supposed to behave as adult beings with a mind of their own, people would say. But people didn't understand, didn't really understand what happened when you refused a role, whether it was sung on studio or on stage. Especially because, if all singers think themselves indispensable, the truth is they never were.

  
Or when you quarrelled with certain agents.

  
When all was ready and the wine was served they sat around the coffee table. Some of them on the sofa or the loveseat, some of them on pillows they had thrown on the floor, and the game started. First one to try – the order was arbitrary – was Vincenzo, the tenor. He picked a piece of paper and read:

  
“Carmen. _L'amour est un oiseau rebelle_ ” he had laughed “Well, if Beniamino Gigli did it, dressing as Carmen on top of that, why not. There was a silence, no one daring to mention less fun stories about Gigli (3).

  
They all took a shot before he started singing his particular take on the famous _Habanera_.

  
And thus the game had started, immortalized by Vincenzo's phone. Olga herself had the chance, or not, of picking a role for mezzo. Orsini's drinking song from _Lucrezia Borgia_ , and since Elena, who was trying her first chance just after her read _Tardo per gli anni e tremulo_ from the Prologue of Giuseppe Verdi's _Attila_ in the piece of paper, they both sang that duet for bass and baritone, after three shots and a brief common discussion about who of the two would sing Ezio. It turned to be Elena (4).

  
After several of these rounds, when the bass – who had been previously awarded with the Queen of the Night's _Der Hölle Rache_ and Manon's _gavotte_ – had to sing Juliette, his third soprano role on-the-row, Olga started to be a little worried for Elena, who seemed resolute to go on with the game in spite of her speech turning more and more slurred and her accent coming back with a vengeance. Hermann, after his personal deconstruction of Senta's Ballad from Wagner's _The Flying Dutchman_ was the most likely to be the last singer standing. But Suzanne seemed to be a good contender. Even when the tenor tried to sabotage her during the rendition of _Di quella pira_ hitting her legs with a pillow. She had hit him back on the head when she sat on the sofa again. With her fist.

  
“Now me!” Elena ignored the tenor's protests as he argued it was his turn. Her fingers searched inside the hat until she took one particular piece. She looked at it, then showed it. “Hoffmann. _Kleinzach_.” she looked around, laughing until she almost suffocated “A... drinking... song again. How... fitting (5)”.

  
She grabbed her glass with her left hand and got up with a certain difficulty and kicking her pillow away. One shot. Olga barely drank a sip.

  
“...But... I have a question”, the soprano said managing to sound still coherent “This one has a chorus. Are... you singing along with me?” she giggled as she struggled to remain on her feet. Olga could see her friend's legs were wobbly and she may fall on the floor at any moment.

  
“Of course”, Suzanne replied with a smile “But only if that counts as a duet”

  
Elena raised her glass as in a toast, and drank the two supplementary shots.

  
“Three shots then”, Hermann suggested, following the soprano's example and ignoring Olga's concern. The mezzosoprano left her glass on the coffee table.

  
“... And ladies and gentlemen, we have our first abandonment”, Piotr commented.

  
Elena took a sharp breath and started to sing.

  
“ _II était une fois à la cour d'Eisenach..._ ”, it was curious how she sounded less slurry when singing, and her Frech diction was still quite good.

  
“ _À la cour d'Eisenach!_ ” the rest of the cast sang back. Olga remained silent, anguish mounting.

  
“ _Un petit avorton qui se nommait Kleinzach!_ ” Elena sang, blowing a kiss to Vincenzo, who kept filming. Definitely things were getting out of control, but there was no way to stop it.

  
“ _Qui se nommait Kleinzach!_ ”

  
“ _Il était coiffé d'un colbac, et ses jambes elles faisaient Clic Clac! Clic clac! Clic Clac! Voilà, voilà Kleinzach._ ” Elena moved the glass up and down, spilling some of the wine on the carpet in the process.

  
“ _Clic Clac_!”

  
“ _Clic Clac_!”

  
“ _Voilà, voilà Kleinzach!_ ” Elena prolonged the high note as much as she could – it sounded Kleinzaaaach before her legs gave way and she fell on the floor, the glass miraculously landing in one piece. She didn't seem to bother, as she was half dead with laughter until she rolled on her back, her arm covering her face.

  
“... And that's abandon number two I guess”, Suzanne said. It wasn't exactly a sarcastic comment, it was just fact checking.

  
“No way!” from the floor, Elena seemed to struggle with her arms and legs, trying to get up and go on with the singing, or with the game. Olga helped her, making the soprano's head to lean on her shoulder before the two of them were on their feet. “Olga, go to hell” she said while trying, and failing, to push her away “I... want... to finish... my aria!”

  
“You finished, just like Hoffmann. Drunk and barely conscious. Time to go to our room and sleep to get that inspiration back like him, eh?” Olga made a gesture to her fellow singers, who were still determined to go on with their little game.

  
“Do you need any help?” Piotr asked.

  
“Oh, no, thank you” she was stronger than it looked, she had always been. “Have fun, and remember to clean all this, I'll come down and help you”

  
“It doesn't matter, Olga. We'll left this place as if nothing had happened. Take care of her, she's going to spend a bad time tonight... Not to speak of tomorrow in the morning”

  
“But... I am... pppperfectly fffine”, Elena weakly protested once more as Olga practically carried her away to their room.

  
“My turn”, Vincenzo said. “He handed the telephone to Piotr before unfolding the piece of paper and reading “Oh oh. Aida. _Ritorna vincitor_.”

  
Suzanne's laugh exploded in the library.

  
“I wrote that one” Elena said against Olga's shoulder, chuckling in a disagreeable way.

  
***

> _I don't care. I am lonely and helpless. I want somebody who is gentle and loving to make much of me; I wish I had his head on my bosom again; I have a good mind to go to London and marry him. Am I mad? Yes; all people who are as miserable as I am are mad. I must go to the window and get some air. Shall I jump out? No; it disfigures one so, and the coroner's inquest lets so many people see it._

A muffled sound coming from the bed interrupted Olga's reading. Something like a whisper and a moan. She closed her copy of _Armadale_ over the musings of Miss Lydia Gwilt, tragic villain – or anti-heroine, if one wanted - and laudanum addict, and looked at the side of the room where Elena was laying on her bed, wrapped carefully in a clean blanket and a pillow behind her back. She had put it there hours before, in case the soprano threw up during the night. To suffocate in that was an end that Olga didn't wish upon her worst enemy, not even Olivia Blackwood. It's not that the mezzo-soprano had spent the entire night awake and veiling over her friend, but she had made herself sure that Elena would sleep more or less normally after an incoherent vomit of words and wine in the bathroom. All followed by a nightmare at some point of the night. At least Olga guessed it was a nightmare giving how her friend had cried in her dreams in the early morning. She had run to her bedside, startled, only to see the tears shining on her asleep friend's cheeks.

  
She was muttering something she couldn’t decipher. Maybe it was about _Aida_. Olga wasn’t sure.

  
“What time is it?” Elena said at last, her head half buried in the pillow.

  
“Half past nine” Olga answered softly, even if she knew perfectly it was too loud for anyone with a huge hangover. She saw Elena's burying her head even more “I can brought you something from the kitchen. They have a really good coffee, and may help you”

  
Elena tried to sit on the bed at the word coffee and failed; evidently she was too dizzy to do that. Finally she opted for a compromise and turned to look at Olga, pushing the pillow that had been a barrier the entire night until it fell to the floor. She looked accordingly pale and uncomfortable with herself.

  
“I think I'm going to stay in bed for a while”, the soprano said at last. And after several minutes she asked “What happened last night?”

  
“A drinking game. Suzanne won, by the way, I've been told during the breakfast. I think Hermann is pissed because of it and wants a rematch for tonight. Also Vincenzo filmed us all with his phone”

“A drinking game?” there was doubt in her voice “I can't remember it clearly. Did I make a fool of myself?”.

  
Olga thought carefully before answering the question. What could be said that wouldn't hurt her but didn't disregard the truth, either?

  
“Remember what you told me in Paris that day?” Olga finally said “The day in which I told you that I was quitting for a while”.

  
Elena closed her eyes at the mention of Paris and nodded.

  
“You told me that if no one stopped it, you could do a lot of silly things when you were drunk, but nothing irreparable. That's what happened exactly. Nothing irreparable. Not even breaking the glass you were holding as you sang the legend of Kleinzach. Good French diction, by the way; it has improved” did that serve as a consolation?

  
“ _Kleinzach_? Really! How did I end singing that?” she seemed legitimately surprised. The next thing she would say would be that she hadn’t been crying like her heart was breaking early in the morning.

  
Oh dear, Olga said to herself. It was _really_ a blackout.

  
“It doesn't matter anymore” Elena muttered immediately after her own question “Olga, please, could you hand me the painkiler I have in my briefcase? I think I need one of these...; the mere sound of my own heartbeat is unbearable. Or rather, can you bring my briefcase here?”

  
The Russian mezzo-soprano opened the wardrobe and found her friend's briefcase inside. The Elena she had met years ago always had had a lot of mediocre substitutes for a briefcase in several materials to carry her music sheets, or either she had stuffed them in her handbag, without much care. The elegant leather briefcase - with Elena's initials in the metal clasp - had been a relatively recent addition. She was rarely seen without it, and only had left her touch the exquisite work in black leather once. For Olga, this little extravagance wasn't important; for other people apparently gave a bad impression of the Spanish soprano. But, anyway, Elena had to feel really bad this morning to ask her to bring the briefcase. Elena propped herself on one of her elbows and, once the mezzo-soprano left it on the blanket, opened the briefcase and searched for the painkiller in question.

  
“Oh! What a fool that I am. It's in my handbag”, Elena sighed, rolling back to the other side of the bed. There was a nightstand and she had left the handbag there “Ah, is like my brain was on a washing machine inside of my head”, she commented.

  
As she was trying to reach for the handbag – and the plastic bottle with water at its side - something slipped from the already open briefcase. A little plastic can that Olga could catch before it reached the floor. She could read the name written there; even not knowing the name drug itself, she was familiar with its component. Too many sleepless nights in which she had been tempted to take pills like these when she was taking care of her father. Too many sleepless nights since he had left this world, in which she was still tempted. The plastic can was already half empty. She didn’t wonder if there were more hidden in some spot. She knew there were more. How many, she couldn’t guess.

  
“Elena”, Olga said. The soprano was swallowing the painkiller and didn't pay attention to her friend. “Elena; I think we should talk about something” she insisted. Maybe this was a better beginning to which looked like a difficult conversation than _Elena, I think you have a problem_.

  
The soprano finally looked back at her. But no, she was actually looking at the plastic can, as if she was afraid it would disappear.

  
“It hasn’t to be right now”, Olga said, having mercy of that silent, supplicant stare. Her fingers closed around the plastic can, as if she wanted to make it disappear with its tempting content. But instead she put it back inside the briefcase and closed the metallic clasp. There was visible relief in her friend’s eyes when she put the pills back on their place “Later, when you feel better, if you want”

  
“It’s not what you are thinking, Olga”, Elena argued. It was one of the most commonplace things one could say in these circumstances, and her next words weren’t less typical “I can control myself, it’s simply that I need them to have a better sleep. For example, I didn’t take them yesterday”

  
_Probably because you didn’t have the time, and that was fortunate_ , Olga said to herself as she refrained from saying something that could be interpreted in a bad way. Imagine if she had mixed her pills and alcohol. She shuddered at the thought.

  
“As I just said, you may want to talk later about all this” she replied to the younger singer “I think you must rest now; I’ll bring you some coffee if you want to later. May I left this where it belongs?” she pointed at the black briefcase.

  
“Yes, please”, Elena muttered, her face now half hidden by her hair. The Russian mezzo wasn’t entirely sure to which of the things she had just said Elena was referring to. The briefcase? The coffee? The absolute need to address her problem?

  
She left the exquisite thing on Elena’s side of the wardrobe and closed the door, all the time feeling Elena’s eyes fixated on her back.

  
“Or maybe you’ll join me at the garden when you are feeling better?” she suggested, going to her side of the room and ostensibly taking the book on her hand. That would maybe give her the time to think if she really wanted to talk about the problem. Olga didn’t want to talk to Elena’s community manager when he came later. Not behind her back anyway; she didn’t dare to do so.

  
Elena looked at her silently, as if understanding these words required all the time in the world.

  
“Yes. Maybe”, she finally sighed, closing her eyes again.

  
Olga stepped into the hallway, holding the novel against her breast. On her way to the garden she passed by Suzanne's room. She was making a strecht on a foam roll, one of the methods she had to control her ribcage. If she had a hangover then it was light, at least compared with the one Elena was suffering. The mezzosoprano didn't want to disturb but Suzanne turned her head to look at her and asked:

  
“Well, how is our Aida feeling this morning?”

  
“A little better than last night if anything” Olga said, not wanting to give more details.

  
“Perfect” she got up. Raising her arms she took a sharp breath “I think she need a lesson or two in how to drink. Maybe I'll give her some of these, if she introduces me to some handsome politician”.

  
“Has the Internet connection been restablished yet?” the Russian mezzo asked, without wanting to take her bait.

  
“Hummm, no. Sorry, Olga, we are still in the 19th Century this morning” she breathed as she touched her ribs “And by the way, don't worry about the library. We cleaned that up”.

  
“Glad to hear that”, she said, as she headed to the stairs.

***

  
One couldn't talk of favorite spot in a garden when she barely knew it, and she would probably never visit that manor again. But there was a bench under a centenary oak she had liked the first day. She sat there, the book in her lap, enjoying the fresh air for some minutes. Then she resumed her reading, waiting.

_...I have failed; without prospects, friends or hopes of any kind – a lost woman, if ever there was a lost woman yet. Well! I say it again and again and again – I dont care!..._

She feels sorry for that character, which is definitely a bad person, a murderous, dangerous creature that hasn't been created to be admired, or pitied. But that's the point, in spite of all these she sees a human being hugely flawled, irrecuperable perhaps, but lost and very, very alone. Sometimes even the worst character of a book deserved her compassion, like that first time she attended to a representation of Othello (Shakespeare's, not Verdi's, even if her reactions were similar) and she felt sympathy for all the characters involved. Even Iago. Why, then, was she feeling so uncharitable towards Mrs. Blackwood? With a frown, she tried to concentrate in her reading and time flied.  
She heard steps behind her and a shadow was casted over the page she was reading. Elena.

  
“You said we maybe needed to talk”, the soprano said.

  
“About?” she answered.

  
There was a brief hesitation, a hint for her that she wouldn't open her heart entirely in this conversation.

  
“About the pills on my briefcase and how you think they are a problem”.

  
Olga looked at her for the first time. Before going on with this, she needed to know if Elena was in conditions to really listen what she had to say.

  
“How are you?” she asked.

  
“Better. At least I can maintain my verticality”; Elena sat in the bench at her side. Olga closed the book, keeping it on her lap “So are you willing to listen?”

  
“Yes.”

  
And so, they talked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Juliette's "waltz" from Act I. Listen to it and now imagine that same aria sung by a bass. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o99zoWIrQ-I  
> 2) The Priestess in Aida is (generally, as in certain productions she can be seen on stage) an off-stage secondary role which curiously has been sung by great singers in the first steps of their careers. Example given, Joan Sutherland (in a performance where Maria Callas was Aida): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I10VUUrIslA or Kiri Te Kanawa: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQBxKrvMSAE  
> 3) Legendary tenor Beniamino Gigli (1890-1957) appeared in a special gala at the Metropolitan Opera of New York (the Grand Operatic Surprise Party) dressed as Carmen. It was in 1932 and he not only appeared on stage with the full attire of the heroine of Bizet's opera. He also sang the Habanera. There's no recording of the event, but there is a photo: https://i.pinimg.com/474x/83/b3/54/83b354cc70c28d32e2f281d403048b6d--vintage-photos-gigli.jpg.  
> The "less fun part"? His sympathy for Mussolini & alia. Ew.  
> 4) Orsini's drinking song - which ends with him dead: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTUEcxyXRXw  
> And Attila and Ezio's duet from Verdi's Attila: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5c_q0epdLR8  
> 5) Paraphrasing that famous quote from Forrest Gump, life is like Offenbach's The Tales of Hoffmann (Les Contes d'Hoffmann if you wish). You never know what you're gonna get. Entire volumes can be written about the different editions of this work. What matter for us there is the Prologue takes place in a tavern and that the drinking song (in an opera that starts with a chorus with personifications of types of alcoholic brevages around a poet's muse) of Kleinzach is repeated at the end... just before main hero Hoffmann is left barely conscious after getting very, very very drunk. A rendition of this aria in the tavern scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W9qWpUE2yho
> 
> Now, yes, that's all for this week. As usual:  
> \- Hope you enjoyed  
> \- Feel free to comment, critizise, etc etc
> 
> Until the next one.


	46. Pietà, rispetto, amore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems cute because it has singing chihuahuas.  
> It's actually not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, and I don't think it will be the only one this week.  
> As usual, English is not my first language and you'll find some mistakes probably. Without further ado, enjoy.  
> (Ah, and you have notes at the end, too!)

**XLVI**

**_Pietà, rispetto, amore_ (1)  
**

_Pietà, rispetto, amore,_  
_Conforto a'dì cadenti,_  
_Ah! non spargeran d'un fiore_  
_La tua canuta età._  
_Nè sul tuo regio sasso_  
_Sperar soavi accenti_  
_Ah! sol la bestemmia, ahi lasso!_  
_La nenia tua sarà._

(Mercy, respect, love,  
the comfort of declining years,  
these will place no flowers  
on your old age.  
Nor should you hope  
for kind words on your royal tomb:  
only curses, alas,  
will be your funeral hymn).

VERDI, _Macbeth_ , Act IV

**August**

The orchestra brilliantly attacks the ouverture of Glinka's _Ruslan and Ludmila_ as the rumor expands at the foyer, where some critics and students wait to be admitted for the dress rehearsal. There's more shock than sadness at the news, and, overall, much discomfort among the individuals present there. The responsibles of the gala in homage to the retiring musical director, who is on the podium in that moment, one hand in movement, the other frantically clawing at the wooden barrier behind him as his concertmaster seems concerned he could fall on her. The Maestro is no longer a dashing, young firebrand as he was once, and his legs often fail to sustain him when he is back on his dressing room. Still, stubborn as he is, he has imposed some choices as far as the list of pieces that the orchestra should perform for his own farewell gala. Apart from this classic of the Russian repertoire, he has picked the ballet from Verdi's _I Vespri Siciliani_ , the ouverture for Rossini's _Guillaume Tell_ and Richard Wagner's _Good Friday music_ from _Parsifal_. As for the orchestra, he's not supposed to conduct the entire gala. His doctor's opinion is that he wouldn't endure it, so he's going to watch sitting at the first row while soloists and singers who had, in the first place, worked with him, and in the second, still wanted to take part in a charity event of this kind make their appearance.

Back from her recording sessions for _Aida_ – now in post production – Elena holds the music sheet for her aria: _D'amor al dolce impero_ from Rossini's _Armida_. The fact that she never got to sing the opera at Pesaro remains as a thorn on her side. As she caresses the yellowed sheets, stained with that cheap wine from long time ago, the one that had tasted so bitter at that karaoke bar, she sighs. Yes, she is satisfied with singing this aria at the gala, even if she wanted something completely different. But it turns out someone has picked it for her, and she's been the one who had to let the aria go.

She glances at her side, when the individual responsible for that change reads her own music sheet while sitting in a chair. She carefully memorizes the words from _O nume tutelar_ , rarely performed aria from a rarely performed opera (2). A weird choice for her. Irina Ardeleanu has showed up for the rehearsals, and that's the equivalent of spotting the ghost of Donizetti waving at them from the upper gallery. It's true, however, that she has arrived today, and she's still not satisfied to be crammed between the baritone that will sing Macbeth's plaintive aria from Act IV and the duet that will be performed by Mrs. Moser and Mrs. Scott, who are going to sing _Dôme épais_ from _Lakmé_ (3). But having Irina there, even if unusual, is not the news that suddenly hit the singers present there and it's quickly spreading from the foyer to the cafeteria, thanks to one member of the staff that happened to walk by. No, Irina's presence would not cause that discomfort.

  
Elena probably disagrees to a certain extent, considering how Madame Ardeleanu is the one who made her the recommendation of the sleeping pills. They were the center of her conversation with Olga at the garden of the manor, and even if a sort of inner voice tells her Irina is not to blame for her own decisions – it's also what Olga said to her, managing to be kind and implacable at the same time -, the soprano feels some relief in putting a part of the blame in the other woman. It makes her forget the yells of her doctor about her constant lies, or how she has ignored his recommendations, or how she should look for help in another kind of professional. But he had finally calmed down and recommended a progressive reduction of the dosis.

  
She later discovered that he had started to send mails to Chus, who had been more cooperative with her in past times. She also discovered that he had sent mails to Carmen, who, after calling the soprano, unchained over her head the scold of her life, the wireless equivalent of these slaps that her mother had given to her after she was rescued her from the bathroom where she had locked herself up. And Emmanuel? Emmanuel knows nothing about these habits and she has guarded herself of telling him about this kind of pills – about the others, these others pills that are a barrier against all the blond-children-playing-at-the-garden, he knows well. He doesn't need that in his life, especially about the _Kleinzachgate_ , as Madame Le Pen had put it in her tweets. Even if he was the only individual amused at it.

  
In the meantime, the rumor has jumped from the cafeteria to the dressing rooms where all is being prepared to receive the singers that have not arrived yet and have certain exigences. This one wants a brand new pet bed for his chihuahuas, that are always with him. That venerable contralto needs two extra hours to have her hair combed in the way she's used to, so she has exiged her aria to be placed at the end of the gala. That other dressing room is being disinfected with a mix of a particular bleach brand, the only one that doesn't disgust the singer's nose. The individuals who comment the news barely think about that little controversy with Elena's particular take on Offenbach's aria. No one does, a week has passed, and that's a considerable amount of time.

  
It's not adequate maybe to wish ill upon other human beings, and she's sure Olga would never do that, but Elena really wish someone would punch Marine Le Pen's face, or would do that personally. She had to limit herself to yell to the leader of the Rassemblement National, or rather to her Twitter account in private, behind the screen of her tablet.  
The first image showed the President and Elena Mendieta, side by side, smiling to the camera. Nothing to see there, it was the selfie they had made at the football stadium. The second was a screenshot of a video that had been reposted to Le Pen's own Instagram account, after spending a couple of weeks unnoticed in the obscure account of Vincenzo – the tenor had not many followers and now had closed it. Even with the blurred quality of the screenshot everyone could see how Madame Mendieta, the president's friend as she had proudly proclaimed, was holding a glass of wine in her hand, her arm raised, her mouth open, her head leaning back. Oblivious of everything that wasn't singing or – presumably – drinking.

  
Madame Le Pen had added to her tweet: “ _Vraiment le Président est très, très mal entourè_ ” and had ended with the words “ _Pauvre France_ ”, before asking for the dissolution of the chambers. This last bit had somewhat ridiculized her -what had the soprano to do with the National Assembly anyway -, but the video – that lasted a few seconds, and had been since then deleted along with the tenor's account - had been circulating since then among her followers, and on Facebook pages belonging to groups of Yellow Vests. Elena's peculiar take on the extremely catchy tenor aria was cut and didn't show the moment in which she had fallen to the floor, obviously under the effects of too much of that red wine. This was little consolation. Someone had created the hashtag _#Kleinzachgate_. It had been trending for the entire day after Madame Le Pen posted the two photos. A day later Madame Le Pen made a comment about how low the institution of the presidency had fallen.

  
Little was known of Emmanuel's comments on the particular. Yes, Elena received a call from him praising her high notes which made her want to punch him on the face too, with what of her body parts didn't matter exactly – she was undecided between her hand or a lower spot of herself. From there it had landed in the gossip magazines, and the hysteria went on as the President left his palace for his summer residence of Bregançon. He made little comments, even if _Le Canard Enchainé_ quoted him as saying that Madame Le Pen had _fallen so low that she would soon be cataloged by Monsieur Conseil as abyssal fauna_.

  
The leak, whether was true or not, caused a new wave of comments and debates from editorialists about what the president had meant and who was that Monsieur Conseil (4), followed with an amused look by those that had read the works of Jules Verne. In any case, after three days of discussion about this particular and unverifiable quote the visit of Putin to the presidential residence, followed by the possible occult symbolism of Emmanuel going to dinner a pizza with his family (5)– read by editorialists as an attempt to look approachable – or taking dossiers with him to the beach. And thus _Kleinzachgate_ disappeared from BFMTV, CNEWS or LCI but left a bitter taste in Elena. Not to mention the amused looks of other singers.

  
The rumor is already creeping up to the backstage, thanks to stage hands and to the presenter of the gala, a popular former anchor of a 24-hour rolling news and weather channel is struggling with her script, which is full of witty jokes and references no opera lover could miss. There are, however, indesirable names that would not show up again, even if it had been planned to have them in the homage to the Maestro that, in the meantime, has finished conducting his overture and is half collapsed against the wooden barrier, gasping for air. How he is going manage to conduct all these pieces it is beyond Elena's – and anyone else's – mind. The presenter has erased, for example, all possible reference to Plácido Domingo, the last and most illustrious name to fall under the accusations of sexual harassment of several singers. Accusations that he has half admitted by the way.

  
Someone from the chorus leans and whispers something to the presenter, who looks embarrassed, pressed her lips and left her chair on her way, presumably, to the artistic director's office. As for the chorus member, she fulfills her purpose of spreading the news. The baritone who is going to sing _Macbeth_ 's aria tells the news to Mrs. Scott, who, in her turn, partakes it with Angelika. Neither Elena nor Irina notice none of this, busy as they are with reading their scores.

  
It is Irina's turn to rehearsal her aria. She gets up majestically as usual, walks to the scene and waits until the Maestro's assistant steps on the podium to conduct, a smile pasted in her face. No one of the guest conductors has arrived yet. One of these has declined due to alleged personal differences with the board – he had been unceremoniously kicked in his ass one decade earlier by this same opera house –, the other are conducting at festivals and would fly later. Or so is expected. In any case, and when the assistant finally raises the baton and the chords in the orchestra starts to play that almost bellinian introduction, Elena feels the hand of Angelika Moser in her shoulder.

  
“Eh, Elena, have you seen the news? Everyone is talking about that” she looks weird, as if she is struggling with herself.

  
What news?, the Spanish soprano asked to herself. There were a variety of thoughts crossing her mind at maximum speed, all of these related to Emmanuel or herself. With diminishing her daily amount of pills taken and after Olga witnessed how she still had nightmares no matter the dosis, even if she didn't remember them exactly – Elena doesn't know what exactly provoked the tears she shed that night after the drinking game as she doesn't remember anything, but Olga wouldn't lie to her – bad dreams have returned with a vengeance.

  
“Honestly, I don't know what to think, what to say...” Angelika makes a pause, takes her phone from the pocket of her black trousers, searches for something in the Internet.

“Heavens know that I didn't appreciate him, but I didn't wish this”.

  
Elena takes a look at the screen, somewhat relieved. The news aren't related to herself, and apparently not to Emmanuel, either.

  
“He took his own life” Angelika adds “Barbiturate overdose it seems”.

  
Then she reads _Tenor Alan Brown found dead_ under a video of his, apparently, distraught widow. There is no possible mistake about how his children, also in the video, are feeling, one could have had doubts with her; their distraught, on the other hand, is very real.

  
She understands now Angelika's weird look. Liker her, she didn't appreciate that guy with hands so long and uncontrollable libido.

  
She had never wished him dead, though. Punished by justice yes. But this was...

  
On stage, Irina keeps singing her plea to the goddess of unfortunate people.

***

“ _De mortuis nihil nisi bonum_ ” (6), the artistic director said hours later, and thus the matter about if the death of the disgraced tenor deserved a minute of silence during the gala was settled. Since no positive things could be said right now, they wouldn’t say anything. He didn't want a controversy. Alan had been a fixture in the company for years, until that letter on the Chicago Tribune had signed his downfall. Abandoned by most of opera houses, his videos taken from streams on demand, with rumors about his impending divorce – that never came - , he had been claiming that he was innocent of that charge. Giving his antecedents, no one had bothered with believing him.

  
The gala would go on as planned, with no mention to Alan's fate. Maybe the next day the board would send some flowers to the widow or something of that kind.

  
In her dressing room next to the one with the tenor who loved chihuahuas – he was warming his voice before singing the aria with the nine high Cs from _La Fille du Régiment_ (7), and in every high note the dogs howled – Elena was giving her last retouches to her make up. The long list of singers and conductors that would take part in the gala made impossible for the workers of the opera house to take care of all the performers. So it had been everyone for themselves in that case.

  
This had been annoying for her. After all, it had forced her to come earlier from her hotel and do the vocal warming before.

  
Like five or six other singers in the list, Elena had chosen a black dress. Quite the simple one, without risk and enough time had passed from the last gala in which she had worn it. No one would notice it was recycled. As she applied her lipstick there was a knock at the door.

  
“Elena, are you decent?” Chus, who else.

  
“Yes, come in”, she replied.

  
The community manager walked into the dressing room as the neighbouring tenor shot one of his High Cs.

  
“ _Pour mon âaaaaaaaaame, quel destin!_ ”, followed by a howl. God, he was actually good. Not the dog, the tenor.

  
“For how long have they been doing that?” Chus said, perplexed. There was no answer for the soprano. In one of his hands he was holding his Ipad. His other arm surrounded a vase with a bouquet of lilies, with its customary card. “There, you have received this, surprise”, he added, sounding like the least surprised human being in the world.

  
He left the vase in the desk as she smiled at herself in the mirror. The part of her body with which she longed to hit his face with became one that was even lower, and more intimate.

  
“But you haven't come only to bring these here, have you?” she asked. She wasn't entirely satisfied with how the lipstick looked on her tonight but it was probably too late to be sorry about it.

  
Chus sighed.

  
“No, in fact I was going to ask you about how we, I mean you, should react to... Allan's demise”.

  
Elena took one of the earrings she had chosen for that night and put it on.

  
“How should we react?”, she asked actually meaning how people was reacting. In that aspect she was a little lost “Maybe we shouldn't react at all”.

  
The howling on the other side of the wall had stopped. Now there was a female voice she didn't recognize. Apparently the tenor was watching some video as he awaited for his time to step on stage. It wouldn't be soon. She picked the other earring from the desk.

  
“There are... news”, Chus said, leaving himself fall on the little loveseat.

  
“Again?” she asked. What could happen now?

  
“Watch this. Like everyone else in this opera house”, Chus replied, showing her the screen and turning the volume up. There was a new video, a woman being interviewed in the door of what appeared to be her house. Elena knew her face; not only she had spotted her now and then at the opera house during her stays in Chicago. She had been the hand behind the anonymous letter to the Tribune which had led to Alan's downfall. It seemed ridiculous, but she did seem distraught. Four or five journalists had rushed to her door a few hours after Alan's death.

  
“... but I didn't wish this” she said sobbing, echoing Angelika's reaction.

  
_Didn't wish what exactly?_

  
“Are you implying the allegations on the letter were false?”

  
There was a long silence from the woman. Chus stopped the video.

  
“Guess what. It turns out that of all the cases that had been appearing since the day that letter appeared, hers is the gravest, being sexual assault.. and the only one that has turned to be false. Now every single one of the other women that, apparently, said the truth, are furious against her”.

  
“Has she admitted it?” Elena said, a little sick “Has she admitted she lied?”

  
She didn't want to pronounce the words “Was Alan innocent of these charges, as he claimed?”.

  
“Yes” Chus said “He never touched her. Her story was a composite of some things she had heard. And you don't have any idea of how are things right now in the social networks. He shows her the time line with the hashtag _#JusticeforVicky_.

  
“Vicky is his...”

  
“Wif... widow, I know”.

  
An infinite variety of insults against the woman, from fans of the dead tenor and from the women who had witnessed or suffered his misdeeds and now said she had discredited them. And their cause. She had closed her accounts in social media and hidden in her house. Outside, cameras were still waiting for her.

  
“But you know he wasn't”... Elena searched for the words.

  
“A good guy? One I liked? A... relatively decent human being when he was around us?” Chus replied, frowning. “No, Elena, he wasn't any of this, but do you think..?” it looked like he was going to say _Do you think he deserved to end like that_ but he didn't so “How you think his wife and children are feeling right now?”

  
Or all the women who had suffered Alan`s wandering hands without wanting them and whose stories would be now considered untrustworthy. Elena's mind was a confuse mix of ideas regarding hoaxes, presumption of innocence, that trope about the asshole victims that annoyed her when she watched _Murder, she wrote_ with her grandfather, the consequences of barbiturate overdose and the pressing fact that she was doing some vocal acrobatics during her aria in half an hour. Not the time to weight over these matters all of a sudden.

  
“Write something about expressing solidarity with them. His wife and children I mean”, she finally resolved.

  
At the artistic director's office, the board had another meeting, as the gala had already started. The orchestra had just brilliantly attacked the beginning of Glinka's overture for _Ruslan and Ludmila_. Given the latest news, they decided to announce a minute of silence after the intermission, between the aria of _La Fille du Régiment_ and the ballet from _I Vespri Siciliani._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are several, not entirely comfortable chapters to write in this fic and this was partly one of these. So there you go. It won't be the only chapter this week I hope and the other one will be different I promise.
> 
> 1) Transcription varies between "Pietà, rispetto, amore" (Mercy, respect, love), which is the traditional, and "Pietà, rispetto, onore" (Mercy, respect, honor). Actually the original is the latter rather than the former. In performances previous to the critical edition or those which didn't follow it, they use the word "amore". I decided to follow the tradition here.  
> 2) O Nume Tutelar is an aria from the rarely performed opera La Vestale, a work of historical relevance but with an irrelevant presence on stage. Its main role, though, had been the perfect vehicle for divas like Ponselle, Callas or Caballé. Here sung by Renata Scotto who is supposed to be "vocally" similar to my fictional soprano https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CRyjncNKDQ. And here's Callas, with better (studio) sound: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kpNR_IR97cY  
> 3) A.k.a. "Flower duet". You have heard it four million times. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vf42IP__ipw  
> 4) Conseil is a character in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, manservant of the narrator Aronnax and the one who can't stop classifying species.  
> 5) For those who are not familiar with the wereabouts of French Media in this aspect. This. Kind. Of. Debate. Has. Happened. https://www.lepoint.fr/politique/emmanuel-macron-president-des-pizzas-13-08-2019-2329576_20.php  
> 6) "De mortuis nihil nisi bonum" or "De mortuis nil nisi bene [dicendum]", which meants not speaking evil of the dead.  
> 7) Here's Juan Diego Flórez singing that aria with an encore included. It really has nine high Cs written and some tenors add a tenth one. A true showpiece for tenors: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeVmNs1rRTA. And here's Luciano Pavarotti, live in 1972. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzZwVN9PhQw
> 
> So, that's all for today. Hope you enjoyed. And as usual feel free to critizise and comment.


	47. Der muß gefeiert sein.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of old cafés and new plushies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technical difficulties definitely set aside, here's the new chapter. As usual, be indulgent with my mispellings and gramatical oddities. There's nothing much to add but enjoy. And the customary notes at the end are there, too.

**XLVII**

_**Der muß gefeiert sein.** _

_Einst hieß es:_   
_Brüder, morgen fällt_   
_Sein Geburtstag ein!_   
_Gleich riefen All' und Jede:_   
_Der muß gefeiert sein._

_Da war des Wohlbehagens_   
_Und jeder Freude viel,_   
_Und wo man sah und hörte,_   
_War Sang und Tanz und Spiel._

One day someone said  
“Brothers, tomorrow it's his birthday!  
And the rest of them replied:  
“We must celebrate it”

So there was great relish  
and everyone rejoiced  
and wherever you go  
there were songs, dances and plays.

MOZART, _Des kleinen Friedrichs Geburtstag_ , K. 529

The waiter looked at her in a funny way when she asked for a hot chocolate with croutons, but she didn't take that badly. After all, it was one of these mornings in which, stricken by the heatwave, her hometown seemed to brace itself to confront another day in which the streets would exhale a volcanic breath. But she would not start her morning by drinking something cold, even in August. So yes, she wanted a cup of hot chocolate, she insisted, with her best smile, her palm against the fresh marble of the table where she had chosen to sit down. He took her order in a tablet – gone were the days when he would have done so in a little notebook marked with the cafe's name – and left, while she wriggled on the dark wooden chair, her eyes wandering away to look at the wooden columns, the mirrors and the marble stairs that lead to the second floor. This table had been a favorite spot of hers whenever she visited that café, with its old-fashioned style that seemed taken from the second half of the 19th Century, the time when it had opened its doors. A café that wasn't in her neighbourhood but that she had haunted early in her career, whenever she visited her new voice teacher recommended by Carmen. She, who lived ten minutes from there, had been the one who had brought her there for the first time. Elena wasn't sure if, at that moment, she had wanted to impress her with the names of writers, actors and, in general, celebrities that once had sit at the same tables or if she only liked the chocolate, that in her opinion was one of the best in the city – the best Elena had ever tasted was served in a little, not very clean bar outside anything resembling a touristic route – but if one can fell in love with a place at the first sight, then the soprano had instantly adopted that place as one of her favourite ones (1).

  
She looked at the street through the windows. People coming in and out from the Metro, stopping at the press kiosk that, more or less, had been there since the café was opened. Now it was a place where, apart from the daily newspapers and magazines, one could find books, CDs and DVDs from every single collectable that had appeared in the last years, and at a budget price. Once, in her way back home from one of her classes, she had bought there Magda Olivero's live recording of Cilea's _Adriana Lecouvreur_ from 1959 (2), keeping it hidden in her handbag so her mother didn't discover she had spent her hard earned money in another opera CD, when she had already spent her hard earned money in singing lessons, when it was unlikely she would ever make a living of that. It was what her mother had believed, anyway.

  
“ _Su chocolate, señorita_ ”, the waiter said, putting a white cup with the cafe's name written on it on the marble table. She looked at his eyes vaguely surprised. Señorita, Mademoiselle or Miss Mendieta, sounded quite old fashioned, and she had never used them, not even during the early stages of her career. But as had happened with his amusement she didn't take it badly, either; it seemed to match the place. He remained there at her side as she tasted the hot liquid. She did it carefully and smiled, as if giving her approval. He then left her side. She remembered too late that, maybe, she should have asked if the chess club still existed after the reopening.

  
Through the window she saw Carmen approaching to the door, even if in the last moment she stopped just in front of the kiosk, clearly interested for some of these DVDs that were on sale in the left. She picked one and bought it, stepping into the coffee the moment after, plastic bag with the freshly acquired item in one hand and a black wooden hand in the other. A red handbag was precariously hanging from her arm. She was wearing a vaporous red skirt and a black t-shirt, and she had put on yet another new pair of earrings. Sunflowers, it seemed. Instantly spotting the soprano, she sat at the chair in front of her. When the waiter materialized – there was no more adequate word for the way in which he suddenly appeared – next to her, she asked, too, for a hot chocolate, in spite of the heat she was feeling and that she promptly tried to relieve with her fan.

  
“I can't believe I found a copy of _War and Peace_ in the kiosk, she said, opening the plastic bag and showing her a DVD, or rather a DVD set. “The Soviet one, of course. Are you familiar with the Soviet version? ” she said, with a fervour that almost tempted Elena to lie and say _yes_.

  
“No”, she finally replied, as she chewed one of her croutons; and, without swallowing it yet, she went on “But I am familiar with the one with Audrey Hepburn (3)”

  
Kind of, she thought to herself. Honestly the _War and Peace_ she was most familiar with was Prokofiev's one (4).

  
“Well, one day we'll watch this together”, she said putting the DVD set inside its plastic bag again. Just in time, as the waiter had brought her chocolate “Oh, thank you” and drinking, she sighed “Ah, it's as delicious as ever, don't you think?”

  
Elena nodded, even if there were some new elements in the picture. Like the way in which the second floor had been restored. It barely looked like she remembered it. Equally, the chocolate was good, but something was lost, she didn't know exactly why. Taking another crouton, she dipped it in her chocolate.

  
“Well, dear girl, let me apologize by the way in which this conversation started, I see you didn't want to see me because you share my enthusiasm about Bondarchuk”

  
“And be sure that I won't speak about the surprise birthday party you and my sisters are organizing for me when I am back home” Elena added eagerly.

  
“Who was the one who told you about the party?” Carmen asked.

  
The soprano answered:

  
“It was my mother” she shrugged “You know she's really bad at keeping secrets. So when I am back at home later this day I'll react accordingly and act as if they had surprised me. No, it's not about that” she hesitated a moment before adding “I am thinking about leaving Mrs. Blackwood's agency and wondering if you could come back, like in the old times... You, Chus and me”.

  
Carmen leaned back on her seat; her surprise didn't seem feigned. She looked down at her cup and then took it between her fingers, apparently not feeling the heat. Then she took a sip before replying.

  
“Well, I didn't expect you would offer me a job today” and then added “What exactly did Mrs. Blackwood do this time?”

  
“She said that not wanting to sing _Aida_ on scene because it was too heavy was stupidly incoherent, since I had sung Elsa once, and on scene”.

  
“Did she really add the word _stupidly_?”

  
“Yes, I am quoting verbatim”

  
“Well, that's not very polite but not enough to leave her” Carmen said “And, don't be mad at me, but she has her point. You know that _Lohengrin_ was a mistake”.

  
“Wagner was a mistake”, Elena snapped.

  
“Darling, don’t' be so harsh with the poor dead guy. Yes, he was an asshole, but he wrote sublime music that, unfortunately, your voice shouldn't touch again. So yes, Wagner was a mistake for you” she crossed her fingers and rested her chin on her hands “And besides, she didn't force you to make that recording, did she?”

  
“She was very insistent”.

  
“Until you yielded to her, I know the story” Carmen said “She was doing her job of transforming singers in cash machines, you didn't resist her, these things happen. With managers, with conductors, and with other singers” she tapped Elena's hand “

  
“It's a bad idea to say no to Mrs. Blackwood, generally”.

  
“And yet you want to drop her suddenly, I don't see how that could delight her”

  
“So you don't think you could come back with me”, Elena said.

  
“Elena, when I was around you didn't confide enough to tell me your sleep problems, not to mention that tendency to...” there was a moment of hesitation “as Chus put it once, carefully _study every inch_ of the second title of the French Constitution. And, by the way, how is _M. Second Title_ doing?”

  
Without a word, Elena showed her the screen of her own phone. It was kind of a tradition in France to try and surprise the president in office while at Bregançon, preferently if it was in their swimming wear. The images showed Emmanuel, tanned and shirtless, enjoying the sea with his wife, since, as he had declared, he preferred it to the swimming pool inside the fortress. Carmen's eyes casted an appreciative look over his body. Elena felt a strange pride, as if she was partly responsible for him being fit.

  
“I guess that asks my question” she said “What do you expect exactly, congratulations? But allow me to say, darling, that these trunks should go, they are definitely ugly”

  
“That's a detail that doesn't actually bother me, as we are accustomed to not make use of said garment when we are in private”, the soprano said shamelessly, in a low whisper. Then she put back the phone in her handbag. Carmen looked at her, not precisely scandalized. She had witnessed similar outbursts before.

  
“Congratulations then” her ex manager said vaguely amused “But I stand for what I said. You kept too many things from me at that time, taking for granted that I would not protest when I’d found it, and that's why I left. Other took my place and seems she's not that bad at it; besides, you have Chus. And, in certain way, you have me too. But things aren’t going back to how they were before we parted in London; I am officially retired now” she pointed to the ceiling “It’s like the upper floor, it can’t be back to the way it was, but it’s functional and the café survives”.

  
“I understand”, Elena lied. Without bitterness, but disappointed “I guess that makes my debut as Aida on stage inevitable”.

  
“Not inevitable, my dear; but instead pretty complicated to avoid now that you signed the contract for the recording and for the performances. It’s too late now. By the way, how is the production of your _Aida_ supposed to look like?”

  
“Minimalistic. Not blackface, as was established; the action takes place in a museum, Radamès is the guide, I, Aida, the janitor and the Pharaoh and his court look like tourists. It’s going to be booed, and badly” and she had left out the details about Amonasro being presented in quite the cartoonish way as a street vendor.

  
“And with reason I would say” Carmen finished her chocolate and put the red handbag on her lap “I could have given this later to you, but maybe it’s better right now” she gave her a little package with blue gift wrap, a book, judging from the size “Happy birthday, Elena”.

  
She took her gift, tearing the gift wrap. As she half expected, the cover of García Lorca’s _A poet in New York_ appeared before her eyes.

  
“I guess that since our conversation in Vienna you didn't have the time to read it properly. Yet.”

***

  
“ _Surprise_!” they yelled once she stepped into her attic and she turned the light on. The entire day had been occupied with visiting her favourite music stores – she needed a copy of the new critical edition of Puccini’s _Tosca,_ the one that included all the sections usually cut – and having lunch with one of the few friends she had left in the city. Her siblings, her nephews and some of her friends - including Chus and Carmen - were reunited in the living room, under a banner painted evidently by an extremely inexperienced, unfamiliar with orthographic rules hands which read _FELIZIDADEZ_ (5), accompanied with some musical notes and butterflies that were due to another, only slightly more agile hand. She managed to look adequately surprised by their presence here as they all sang Happy Birthday to you, Laura and Dani jumping up and down in the sofa before running towards her. She knelt so they could kiss her on the cheek.

  
“I wrote the banner, Aunt Elena!” Dani proclaimed, extasic.

  
“And I did the rest”, Laura added, showing her hands which still had traces of pink painting.

  
“What do you want? She's an artist” Rafael joked, wrapping the soprano in his arms. “You are improving in the way you pretend to be surprised, by the way”, he said at her sister's ear.

  
Her sisters approached, Isabel with her hands extended, Marta with her toddler in her arms. Elena caressed the child's soft face, joked with Isabel about Nelly II not being there. Then, after greeting all the people present there, she mumbled an apology and announced she was going to her bedroom to change her shoes. Once she was there, she opened her wardrobe and checked if one of the presents she had received that morning was still there. With kids, one never knew. But yes, it was there, absurdly adorable with its red collar and its tricolor plate, and these brown eyes, the plushie version of _Nemo_. This was one of the three gifts she had received this morning from him, and it was the one with the humorous touch. She closed the wardrobe again. Elena had not the intention of leaving it in the hands of the children of the family (6).

  
Going back to the living room, she realized the cake was already served. She blew the candles among a considerable amount of noise, and talked to her parents via skype. It was a pity that her father, even if his health had improved in a great deal, wasn't still able to be there, and her mother had decided to remain at his side. She would celebrate her birthday with them tomorrow, in a quiet way, but still not having them there was one of these little clouds over her joy.

  
“Aunt Elena, are you going to sing for us?” Laura said, hands joined.

  
An adult – or most of them, anyway, with a certain notable exception - would probably find her more reluctant but she decided to comply with her niece's wish and she sat on the piano bench. On the instrument, she had put a vase with a fresh bouquet of lilies, the second of the three gifts he had sent. The elegant part of the trio. They had come without a card but there was no need of such a thing.

  
“Beautiful flowers” Martha said, admiring them.

  
“I know”, Elena replied, her fingers already on the keyboard. She had actually no idea of what to sing; Laura, that was looking at her from one of the sides of the instrument, her hand on her aunt's shoulders. Meanwhile Daniel had run to her other side, and sat on Elena's lap. She could smell the eau-de-cologne for babies that her sister used still on him, much to the boy's annoyance. Suddenly she knew what to sing “What do you think if I sing about a birthday?” the birthday of a little boy, anyway. Mozart's brief song _Little Friedrich's Birthday_ (7). She wouldn't tell that detail to Laura, who probably would ask then for a song dedicated to a little girl, too.

  
“I know funny song about birthdays, too!” Dani said before his aunt even had the time to start, and immediately after he made an impromptu interpretation about _Happy Birthday to You_ that included having a bad time and being hit by a streetcar. There was a general laughter and applause, with Dani being very pleased of himself.

  
“Dani, you shouldn't go around singing that thing”, Marta said to her son, frowning.

  
“Marta, please, we used to sing that version in every single party we were invited”, Isabel said, half dead with laughter.

  
Elena, who in her turn had sung that parodic version quite often in her childhood, needed several minutes to finally sing Mozart's song as her niece had wanted. Short enough to keep the children's attention focused. When she finished there was a second round of applause, while Laura asked for another song.

  
“Laura, dear, you should bring already the gift we brought for your aunt, don't you think?”, Rafa said.

  
Thus started the long procession of gifts. Laura had painted a red cat on a green background and had insisted it should be framed, as it was her gift for Aunt Elena. Rafa's present was more conventional: a silk foulard. Marta had bought her another pair of boots, similar to those she had lost with part of her luggage in Paris the day the cathedral caught fire. A gift atypical of this time of the year, which made Elena think that she had chosen them with months of anticipation. Dani had written her a letter. It was obvious that he was proud of this new adquired hability. Isabel came with the volumes that lacked in Elena's collection of Galdós' _National Episodes_ (8). As for Chus, after looking at Carmen, he gave her his gift. He had brought her a little wooden box decorated with blue birds and flowers.

  
“What's for?” she asked, curious.

  
“It's for putting your tea bags inside, your infusions”, the community manager said.

  
“Infusions?” Marta was puzzled “You never believed in these things”

  
No, she didn't, but even her doctor had suggested that she should drink valerian tea before sleeping, rather than taking these pills she had got so fond of. She had discovered that valerian stunk but helped her to sleep. Chus looked at her eyes; evidently the gift was meant to remind her that she should keep vigilant.

  
“Thank you”, she said, her hand pressing his arm “I'll put this one in the kitchen”.

  
She took the wooden box there, without realizing that Rafa was following her. She only noticed him when she had opened the fridge, in search of some cool drinks. Without alcohol, which surely will disappoint some of the guests, but she wasn't ready for another hangover like the one she had at the manor.

  
“Would you help me with this, please?” she asked.

  
“Of course” he was biting his bottom lip, as if he was hesitating to say something. “Elena...”

  
“Yes?” she answered, without looking at him.

  
“I have heard a lot of weird stories about you lately”.

"About?"

  
“About your friendship as you insist in calling it with _that guy in Paris_ ” she looked at him, lips pressed “I saw that photo in Instagram. My workmates saw it, too. Oh, listen, Elena, I personally don't see the reasons to fawn over him”

  
“Yes it's true” she said in an unexpected impulse of sincerity “All the weird things you have heard, and more. But I don't think you need to know all the details, which I can tell you if you want to”.

  
He raised his hands and said.

  
“No, I don't need these details. But I am worried about you, Elena. I hope you know what you are doing”

  
“Understandable” the soprano answered, not even mad at him. “Please, Rafa, I know what I am doing, you don't need to worry, all is under control”

  
This wasn't exactly true, but he didn't need to know it.

  
“Please take this to the living room” she said taking several cans of Coke and two of tree of Fanta out of the fridge and putting them in his hands.

“You already changed the subject of the conversation” he said, not sounding really amused.

  
“You know I would do that, and you know too this is not the last time we talk about it”

  
She closed the fridge, looking at the collection of magnets and hastily written notes as if she found it extremely interesting.

  
“It's fortunate it's your birthday and I can't yell at you during two hours for being so reckless with your personal life”, Rafa snapped before she made a pout mocking him, very much like the ones she used to make when they were children. The man sighed and went back to the living room, where, as she could guess from the mix of applause and boos, the lack of alcohol had a mixed reception.

  
Only when she was sure he was back in the living room, she took one of these notes, a card made of a better quality paper. There was an address there, some address in Biarritz. And a date that fell during the next summit. In a handful of days.

  
That was Emmanuel's third gift for her birthday. A bit of his time, in several days from this one. The gift that she had received with more enthusiasm. In a handful of days, they would meet again. She put the note back to its place, under that magnet that resembled a semiquaver.

  
When she came back they had pushed a table next to the wall where the Buran poster was hung and it was full of sandwiches and snacks. The kids had recovered their tablets and were arguing about a game with dinosaurs or something of that kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This café is heavily (understatement) inspired in a real one in Madrid. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caf%C3%A9_Comercial  
> 2) One of these legendary performances with a cast leaded by Magda Olivero (1910-2014). You can listen to the entire recording here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cD5PC865xVk  
> 3) Our two ladies (well, one of them actually) are talking here about two different adaptations of Tolstoy's masterpiece, one directed by King Vidor and the other by Sergei Bondarchuk. The second one, actually a series of several films which lasts a total of 431 minutes was a Soviet answer to the Hollywood version, more faithful to the source material and with spectacular recreations of battles. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oug5eKel41M  
> 4) Prokofiev's opera War and Peace, premiered in 1946 and based on Tolstoy's novel. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yzgiK-hQZGg  
> 5) Of course it should read FELICIDADES, but Dani did quite well considering he just "learned" that new hability.  
> 6) Plushie version of Nemo does exist, as you may know.  
> 7) The one that gives its title to the chapter and that can be listened here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEtY8-KgUJA  
> 8) The National Episodes (Episodios Nacionales in Spanish) is a series - or rather several series - of novels by Benito Pérez Galdós. This cycle narrates the history of Spain during the 19th century from the point of view of several characters. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Episodios_Nacionales  
> Well, that was all. Our characters have a date, we'll see how they manage to share a bit of their time together. Feel free to comment, critizise, etc etc. And until the next chapter.


	48. Musica proibita

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The joys of critical editions and belated birthday gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome again, dear readers. Yes, you know already three things. This story is fiction, with some "real" details mixed there, but fiction nonetheless, English is my second language and there are surely some mispellings there that I couldnt' detect. I am improving at that, I assure you. And of course you have the final notes with opera references and all that fun stuff. So enjoy.

**XLVIII**

_**Musica proibita** _

_Ogni sera di sotto al mio balcone_   
_Sento cantar una canzone d'amore,_   
_Più volte la ripete un bel garzone_   
_E battere mi sento forte il core._

_Oh quanto è dolce quella melodia!_   
_Oh com'è bella, quanto m' è gradita!_

_Ch'io la canti non vuol la mamma mia:_   
_Vorrei saper perché me l'ha proibita?_   
_Ella non c'è ed io la vo' cantare_   
_La frase che m'ha fatto palpitare:_   
_Vorrei baciare i tuoi capelli neri,_   
_Le labbra tue e gli occhi tuoi severi,_   
_Vorrei morir con te, angel di Dio,_   
_O bella innamorata tesor mio._

(Every single evening, under my balcony  
I heard a love song being sung  
a beautiful young man repeats it  
and I feel my heart beating faster.  
Oh, what a sweet melody is that one!  
Oh how beautiful, and how dear is to me!  
My mother won’t allow me to sing it,  
Do you want to know why it is forbidden?  
She’s not at home and I want to sing  
the verses that made my heart beat  
I long to kiss your raven hair,  
your lips, your solemn eyes,  
I would like to die with you, heavenly angel,  
Oh my beautiful beloved, my precious treasure)

GASTALDON, _Musica proibita_

He had put away the rest of the work for tomorrow, and now he decided to save a bit of his time to greet the people that the next morning would be behind the success, or not—but the idea of the summit being a failure didn't cross his mind – of the G7. Waiters, and cooks, and policemen, and other staff that would be behind all the great effort, all the great show. People off stage that never was the focus of these summits. Except when there were violent protests; then, the focus would be in the riot police and not in world leaders. But that was the advantage of choosing Biarritz. Easily blocked, easily controlled. There would be some scuffles, he had no doubt of it; there was even an “alternate” summit that would take place at some distance, with so-called leaders from the yellow vests and a heterogeneous crowd of ecologists, anti-system militants and even a pair of former members from the terrorist band ETA. It was supposed to be a _festive_ and _peaceful_ event, which included a march of the president’s portraits, stolen from town halls to denounce his lack of green politics. It would look probably shocking, bordering on fetishism, it would promptly be forgotten, because that’s how news worked. He knew perfectly that said protesters – the only ecologists in World history that caused the death of more trees, as they had advised the participants on the march to print their own copy of the presidential portrait – would be far from the place where the summit was held. And he knew even more, since the organizers of the _alternate_ G7 had an arrangement with the Interior Ministry, Christophe had told him, apparently proud of himself. There would be little protest, even if a group or two of radicals would probably show up. Nothing that could really worry the leaders, he had stressed. The temptation of retorting that he would believe it when he saw it was strong for the President, but decided to spare his minister from the sharpness of his tongue.

  
Instead, he took care of showing himself grateful towards those background characters. He even strolled down the promenade as the night was falling, next to the sea, speaking to the mounted policemen and stroking the heads of their horses. He walked, with his white shirt and his dark trousers, in a considerable good mood. Tomorrow would be the day when the leaders would arrive. He had a surprise on store for Donald, a bold diplomatic strike that would deprive the President of the United States of any protagonism, even with all his usual antics. He would be informed only when it would be too late, during their private lunch. A visit of the Iranian Minister of Foreign Affairs; he smiled to himself. Maybe it would be useful in order to preserve the treaty about nuclear weapons, that was his wish. In any case would put the focus on politics instead of in Donald being sulky and bored leaders watching flashy performances. Biarritz would be different.

  
And of course Justin would be there, and that always was good news. And Giuseppe Conte, who felt himself so liberated since he had resigned after Salvini had blown up the Italian government, culminating all his menaces against his Prime Minister. The latter had given himself the pleasure of calling him out as completely irresponsible and at the Senate, as Salvini was sitting at his side (1).

  
He looked back at the Hotel du Palais, the recently restored building where they all would stay. A reminder of what that imperial city had become during the reign of Napoleon III and his wife, Eugénie.

  
Eugénie, the Empress that had come from Spain and in whose honour the original building where now the hotel stood had been built resembling an E. She had discovered Biarritz when she was a young girl and, as an Empress, she chose that then little, picturesque village, and made it fashionable. Time had passed, the Second Empire had fallen and Eugénie’s palace had been destroyed by a fire in 1903. The rebuilt hotel was even more lavish than Eugénie’s villa, and still resembled her initial when viewed from the air. He smiled to himself; wasn’t that curious he was going to host that summit in that place that wouldn’t exist without that woman born in Granada and raised between Madrid and France and who later would meet the President of the French Republic (2)… and future Emperor of the French. The youngest president in France’s history until he arrived. Wasn’t that funny…

  
The cameras were filming, so it was better to wait and not look to that building he could see from where it was. Not as spectacular as the Hotel du Palais, but hosting his very own Spanish paramour. It was true that she hadn’t inherited an aristocratic name like Eugénie did, but this wasn’t relevant. Not to him, not to her. Later in the night, when the cameras would not follow him and he had changed into a more discreet attire and even a more discrete company – he could be seen from afar, that was sure – he would join Elena in the apartment where she was staying. This first night, before Brigitte arrived, would be for her. His wife knew, of course she did. Wasn’t that a civilized situation, as Elena had put it once recalling that conversation she had once with an old, retired soprano? From afar, it seemed cynical, and maybe it was. His wife didn’t show impatience when they were together, and after the discussion following Elena’s invitation to la Lanterne the affair seemed settled. Not a word about the singer again had escaped from her lips in the presence of her husband, not even after the photos during the reception at Lyon and that little video of her singing visibly drunk, the one Le Pen had used trying to mock him and that had backfired after the leak of his comments had appeared on _Le Canard_ … A leak he had organized, of course.

  
Not a word, again, during their holidays at Bregançon, where, leaving aside Putin’s short visit – he had come smiling, with a flower bouquet for Brigitte in one hand and controversy surrounding him. criticised naturally, especially after their presser where he had staged clearly their differences about Syria, Urkraine or the lack of proper, free local elections in Moscow, with a touch of that classical whataboutism of the good old Soviet school as everyone knew: Putin, the French President, everyone involved. Quite the usual banter, even if things had changed since the first time they had confronted each other, that afternoon in Versailles, under the paintings of Napoleon’s victories against Austria, Prussia or… Russia. Putin had said once that he knew perfectly who he was, under that brilliant surface of the educated, progressist, dynamic leader. _You are, basically, pragmatical_ , he had said. For the sake of that pragmatism, he was in search of a reset not with Putin but with Russia. Which was regarded with certain distrust by some of his partners. Others had tried and failed, who could say he wouldn’t?

  
He dismissed these thoughts; Vladimir Putin wasn’t a subject here, even if Donald insisted over and over again that Russia should be admitted back in the bosom of that privileged group. Some day, no doubt, it would be inevitable, but the situation in Ukraine should be set before. He greeted some of the passers by, that were startled, but not entirely surprised, to see their president casually strolling by the seaside. As casually as it may look when considering that, even if in a reduced version, his security detail followed him, and that cameras were immortalizing the walk. And that there were anti riot barriers in the perimeter of the places where the summit would start. He waved to a man that was taking his dog for a walk; it looked like Nemo, all black and apparently mischievous. He smiled to a group of young girls that crossed him by and filmed him with their smartphones. He accepted to pose for several selfies and then he looked back to the hotel again. Pragmaticism, Vladimir had said. The present situation with Elena and Brigitte's attitude... Was that pragmatism on his wife's part, too?

  
He had enjoyed the stroll, but it was time to put an end to it. He exchanged a look with Alphonse. Tell her, that look said; it was incredible how the man didn’t need more indications than that. A gesture, a certain look, a half-whispered word from afar. The bodyguard took his phone and walked out from the little circle of cameras and people following him, and returned a minute or so later, making a gesture that he had learned, too, to read. Everything is prepared, she will be waiting for you. No need to add more. He, too, had learned to read gestures and half-whispers.

***

Alone in the room, as she waited, her hand caressed musical notations, dynamics, articulation marks and ornaments. Quavers, semiquavers, _pianissimi, staccati, allegro violento, con tutta l’espressione_. The complete score of the critical edition of Puccini’s _Tosca_ , the one she had bought in Madrid the day of her birthday, was open on her lap, and she studied it, note by note, all of them resonating in her head. It smell like a new book, one of the best smells in the world, like the aroma of coffee, or bread just taken from the oven, or the smell of the person you love. Maybe one could add the smell of old books, too. But right now, she studied the score; here was marked _deciso_ , there _lento doloroso_.

  
A performance of such critical, uncut edition awaited her in the future, after _Aida_ , after others that would come. But one should be prepared, so, as she waited, she studied the score. Every single expression, variation, the place where she was supposed to breath, the place where she should sound jealous, sensual, scared, desperate. It was the magic of musical scores, you read them and the music was instantly in your mind. Surely there were new elements in these, some cuts made by tradition and restored in this copy she had now before her eyes, some unfamiliar elements added. Certain operas looked completely different when cuts were open by conductors. Others just had simply a slightly different look after this was done, like just adding a little spice. This was probably the case with _Tosca_ , although singing these little passages Puccini himself had considered superfluous after the premiere in 1900 would be interesting. Or wouldn’t?

  
She skipped some pages and jumped to the tenor’s aria at the beginning of Act III, _E lucevan le stelle_... (3) _Dolcissimo_ , it was indicated for the solo clarinet that introduces the melody, previously heard as the orchestra played it to mark the arrival of Mario Cavaradossi, condemned to death. Sometimes it was regrettable certain pieces weren’t written for her voice. Smiling to herself, she remembered how this aria had evolved from the first draft from the librettists of a political statement in praise of the arts and of liberty that even Verdi had considered moving to the representation of a young man that would soon be confronted with death and that had certain, more essential things to yearn about. The hero of the play, dealing with the proximity of being shot at dawn, yearned for the embraces of his lover, for the sound of her steps in a sandy path as the gate of his garden creaked under a sky full of stars, yearned for her caresses and her voice, her fragrance and the softness of her skin as his hands, trembling with excitation, undressed her. The lost of all hope when he realized he was leaving this world when he enjoyed life more than he ever thought, more than he ever dreamed. Yes, she would have loved to sing that, on stage, that incredible blend of eroticism and hopelessness. But it wasn’t written for her. Like so many things she wouldn’t ever sing. Forbidden music, as that Italian song would say. _Musica proibita_ (4)...

  
It was not that suddenly she wanted to be a tenor – they had the less interesting characters, generally – but sometimes she found a piece of music written for them that she would have longed to have for herself. But to be fair this happened with other vocal types too, and with arias for sopranos whose voices were more agile and light than herself. Or more robust. No Queen of the Night for her, nor Isolde or Turandot.

  
Elena knew well that feeling Cavaradossi was singing about in his last desperate farewell from life, the anticipation before the tryst, how one waits as delicious uncertainty takes over one’s body. Even if, unlike that painter that will be dead by the end of the opera, she couldn’t see the stars from the room, for the balcony was closed and the curtains drawn. No one from the street, or from the building in front of this one should see when he came, who knew thanks to what subterfuge. It was clear the blanket was a thing that only could be used with her or Prime Ministers. She heard sirens in the distance, approaching. Maybe the old excuse of the police control he had told her once. A street is blocked with the excuse of a police operation and, there, you can slide without being noticed, and since these things last for hours… Once, after that time at Garnier, she wondered if that was expending a little too much, but she was beyond moral considerations at this stage. Like Cavaradossi, she only cared about the important stuff here. So she remained alert, waiting.

  
She only cared about these steps resounding in the entrance when the door opened, creaking a little, and he, followed by Alphonse – who immediately vanished, the man was quite talented in this part of his job -, that fragrance that invaded her nostrils when she threw herself into his arms – he was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and jeans, only the exquisitely polished shoes betrayed him a little, as if he had been in such a haste that he didn’t bother changing them for a pair of sneakers -, the sound of his voice as he sweetly muttered her name, the warmth of his palms when he caressed her neck and her face, the impetuosity of his desire – which matched her own – when he grabbed her waist and lead her to the bedroom. How did he knew where to go was a question that would be answered later, when he would confess to have studied the blueprint of the apartment, just like she had studied Tosca’s complete score.

  
The curtains were drawn over the window there too so darkness prevailed, but this wasn’t a problem for him, and neither it was for the soprano. Emmanuel already knew her body well enough, and the same happened to her, so his fingers knew where to go to unbutton, unfasten, pull away from her skin every single piece of cloth that separated her body from his without needing to bother with switching the light on. Later on the night he would do so, to look at her and discover, amused, that the bed cover was red and that this made her flesh look like if she was blushing, like that time at Garnier. But this would be later.

  
For the moment, there was no need to ask about his mood, commanding and hungry for her, with a little touch of overwhelming euphoria – maybe because of the summit tomorrow, maybe because he was the centre of attention here - and she felt in perfect agreement with that, at least for that night. She wondered if he detected the smell of the ocean in her, since she had been swimming that morning in a beach out of the securitized zone; it had been impossible to resist. Maybe the salty smell was there, it didn’t matter if she had taken a shower when she had gone back to the apartment. But if it was the case, it didn’t put him off as he kissed her neck and her shoulders and cupped her breasts. Once he laid her on the bed, he got rid quickly of his own clothes, so quickly that she almost expected to hear the sound of buttons falling to the floor, something that of course didn’t happen.

  
She wondered whether if he would indulge in some foreplay or if rather he was too hungry for wait more; she could relate to it, she had been the entire day waiting, or rather waiting for days since she had received that birthday present with the promise of being together in Biarritz. And foreplay could be left for later, or at least that was she hoped. He lied on the bed at her side, kissing her again; by now her eyes were accustomed to the darkness in the room; she could see the contours of his face; she caressed his cheekbones, his chin, wrapped him in her arms.

  
“I’ve been waiting for you the entire day”, the soprano said. Or the entire week. If Elena didn’t smell of the sea, at least the bed cover did, faintly, but it did. She hadn’t realized before… It wasn’t off-putting for her, either, especially as he moved between her legs. It made an interesting combination with his perfume and her own smell. No, she wouldn’t call it off-putting. He smiled. She couldn’t see it clearly but she noticed it.

  
“I see… And tell me” he asked Elena, as he slide into her with studied slowness that seemed to belie his hunger of a moment before. But this way was better, she thought, as she sighed languorously. Much better “Was it worth the wait?” he sounded admirably controlled, given the circumstances.

  
“Yes” she sighed again, as her legs wrapped him “Yes it is”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are for the final notes of this chapter. Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> 1) Please, if you can understand Italian, you can watch it; it's rejoicing. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x14XISRaBis  
> 2) The Empress Eugénie, daughter of a Spanish general that had fought for Napoleon, meet her future husband when he was the Prince-President. Yes, Napoleon III first was elected President (of the Second Republic). The youngest France ever had until 2017 (and as media repeated constantly, that made Emmanuel Macron the youngest leader since Napoleon I, who had been proclaimed First Consul aged 30).  
> 3) One of the most popular arias in the entire repertoire, here sung by Franco Corelli. Notice the insistence of Parma's audience in an encore... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T-RrG4sfdis. The transformation of the aria from political to a moment of erotic remembrance is, of course, true.  
> 4) Musica proibita (which gives its title to this chapter) is "a song within a song", with a young lady telling us about the attractive young man that sings under her balcony and her mother forbidding her to sing the same verses he does. Popular belief is that he composed it for his opera Mala Pasqua!, when it actually was not and appeared published for soprano and piano in 1881. It's an extremely popular song in recitals, sung by both male and female singers. A recording with Giuseppe di Stefano: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Na7TpiBMDJE And other with Elīna Garanča: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-PGTfsJiwY
> 
> Sooo that's all for today I guess. Feel free to comment and criticise, as usual.


	49. Tacito e nascosto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More stuffed dogs (that can't fix everything)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter (with Canadian Prime Minister inside). As usual, forgive me for my occasional mispellings as English is not my first language; I am getting better at catching the ones that the autocorrector doesn't detect, but I still need to improve I guess. Enjoy. Probably there will be another chapter this week!

**XLIX**

**_Tacito e nascosto_ **

  
  


_Va tacito e nascosto,_

_quand'avido è di preda,_

_l'astuto cacciator._

_E chi è mal far disposto,_

_non brama che si veda_

_l'inganno del suo cor_

The wise hunter seeking prey

goes silently

and stealthily

  
  


And he who intends evil

will not wish to show

the deceit in his heart.

  
  


HANDEL, _Giulio Cesare in Egitto_

  
  
  
  


He had barely landed when he took him apart, in order to have a lunch the two of them. Alone, without their aides, in that terrace that had views to the bay. The lunch was not in his, or his counterpart’s schedule, but it was a good way to start the summit. It also had surprised the press to have the President of the French Republic inviting that of the United States, with whom the relationship had been deteriorating from that official visit that ended in a speech to the Congress that was a negation of every single aspect of Trump’s politics. What they didn’t know was that Donald had called him after that; he didn’t give a damn about what he had said, only about the thing being successful. And it had been, that speech, with Republicans and Democrats senators telling him that they wished he was their president. He only had been furious at one of his speeches when they had celebrated the anniversary of the end of World War I and he had attacked nationalisms in his face. And then everything had been derailing. Many things had changed since April 2018 in his life and in his reputation – even if abroad seemed not that eroded – but his refusal of Donald’s ideas remained the same, with a touch of weariness included. His charm offensive had been unsuccessful, like everyone else that had tried. But he had to deal with him and above all prevent the man to go astray like in that last time during the last NATO summit. Angela had told him later that she found increasingly uncomfortable to be in the same room with the President of the United States. Had she know the kind of things he randomly said when she wasn’t there and which went from the now trademark obsession against Mercedes-Benz and BMW to the _Angela is a loser_ dismissing comment. Hopefuly this time he wouldn't throw anything at her face (1).

“I totally assure you we’d have a great deal between us if you left the European Union”, Donald Trump said, out of the blue “Just like Boris. Have you seen him already? He seems like a great Prime Minister”.

Emmanuel barely blinked. The first time Donald had suggested France should leave the European Union and then negotiate new commercial treaties with the US he had been left speechless, which didn’t happen often. These times were over and he always would react in the same way.

“France won’t leave the European Union” he said “And I am sure you are going to get along with Boris.”

Only that Johnson was, aside from his colourful appearance, his populist speeches and behaviour, an Etonian who could recite the _Iliad_ from memoir – just like he could recite Molière - and, deep inside of him, had surely a disdain for that boorish American who claimed he hadn’t read a book in his life. Emmanuel had his doubt this was true, there was something that told him it was only a kind of bravado to please the less cultivated fringe of his electoral base.

“I don’t understand why. The EU is worse than China in many aspects. And you all have that mania of not letting Russia come. You said you would help in that aspect; after all, it was Obama’s fault if Vladimir invaded the Ukraine”

“I am not aware that president Obama forced him to invade while Vladimir tried to resist with tears in his eyes” the Frenchman replied “And besides, there are other things he needs to recognize before we can even start to think about the G7 becoming the G8 again” he grabbed his glass full of red wine, took a sip. Donald barely drank anything but Diet Coke, but he was clearly enjoyed the Basque cuisine and to have escaped Bolton for a while. It was very natural, who wanted Bolton around.

“But I thought you and Vladimir agreed in some things” Donald argued “Like in these stupid treaty Obama did with Iran. For some reason you both sound the same when defending it. And then you are telling me their Minister of Foreign Affairs is coming”

“And, congratulations, you have a scoop. The first one, since the media…”

“The fake media”.

“… They’ll find out later” Emmanuel made a pause; someone would notice there was an Iranian plane on route to Biarritz and there their Twitter accounts would become mad “Like your aides. I don’t know, maybe we can arrange a meeting. Not now, maybe for later. New York, next month” he looked at him directly.

The President of the United States smiled; it wasn’t a promising smile and Emmanuel knew it perfectly. Neither he had expected to successfully have them and Zarif in the same room; even Zarif knew that perfectly. This was a kind of shuttle diplomacy that, on the other hand, may impress Donald (2).

“Oh, that’s ballsy, Emmanuel” he said. There. If he was already mentioning intimate body parts in their working lunch, then it was a good sign.

“And it maybe help to ease the tensions with Teheran. Regardless of my opinion on the matter, I guess you don’t want one of these, as you use to put it, _endless wars_ ”

“And does Angela know?” Donald asked.

“No she doesn’t, you are the first leader I talk to about this” he mentally begged forgiveness for he was sure the usual _Angela is a loser_ would come sooner or later from Donald’s lips. The German chancellor, as well as the rest of leaders, would be informed on time, but later. Trump’s smile widened; it was evident he loved to be the first one to be informed about his gamble.

“It could be interesting if I invited Vladimir next year during my summit, as a surprise. I am thinking about my resort in Florida, what do you say? It’s very beautiful, the best possible place. Good for my country, too” he looked pensive “If he was here we could discuss about that _terrible_ treaty you like that much”.

Emmanuel didn’t really have the lesser idea about how the Florida resort looked like. Probably there were some constitutional problems with the president hosting such a summit in a resort he owned.

“It’s not that I like it that much. It has its failings but…”

“Then I did well in pulling out. Like from that thing you made in Paris” Donald said, perfectly satisfied with himself “I haven’t seen that pulling out from that caused me to be impopular, whereas you...”

“… We can improve it instead of shredding the entire thing”, Emmanuel went on, ignoring the American president’s allusions to his popularity “No one wants a new North Korea. Not me, not Vladimir, not any of the leaders in this summit. And that includes you”.

“Oh, North Korea is controlled. I have a very good relationship with Kim Jong Un”, Donald bragged.

It was so controlled that the North Korean leader did his nuclear tests whenever he wanted. Still, there was something profoundly shocking in the President of the United States having a better relationship with a dictator than with his perfectly democratic allies. He needed another sip of that wine and a bit of more patience.

“You know, if we could have deals outside the European Union maybe I wouldn’t tax that”, Trump said, pointing to the glass “Melania likes your wine (3)”.

“Ah?” he didn’t know exactly why, but that sounded definitely wrong.

“Yes, she said that when she and Brigitte went to that lunch alone, the two of them, last June. Maybe we could avoid the taxes, we’ll see what happens”

_We’ll see what happens_ usually meant Donald sticking to whatever resolution he had already taken, no matter how absurd it seemed for the rest of humanity. Emmanuel struggled to find the rationale behind his actions; maybe he had been overanalysing the whole time and there was no rationale at all, but the enigma had kept him entertained in the first times, to a certain extent.

“However, she told me that tomorrow the ladies would go to drink sangria or something like that”, Donald went on “Isn’t that from Spain? I didn’t know that sangria existed in France”.

“Spain is just few kilometres away, Donald. We are near to the border, it’s logical that there are some things in common…”

“And you are known for liking certain things from Spain”, the President of the United States snapped. Emmanuel wondered if the man was capable of sarcasm or not, but sometimes his coarse comments seemed to have a hint of it, surely in a profoundly unsophisticated way. That was an allusion to Elena, evidently, and maybe even an allusion to the soprano’s presence in Biarritz. He wasn’t going to take the bait, and much less allowing Donald to muddy up the memories of last night.

“There’s another thing we are going to discuss during this summit. The fires at the Amazon and how the G7 should help to preserve it”.

It was like somebody had pushed a button on Donald’s head, because he felt instantly how he had lost his attention. Climate change wasn’t a thing that interested the President of the United States.

“Wasn’t that Jair’s work to put out these fires?”

“Neighbouring countries are coordinating some help” he didn’t know if Donald remembered that part about France sharing a border with Brazil - the Sun never sets on the French Republic – but he wasn’t going to indulge in explaining why.

Jair’s work had been being a jerk during the last weeks, so far culminating in not receiving the French Minister of Foreign Affairs because he had to go to the hairdresser – something like that won’t happen to me, commented the balding Le Drian – and stating that the French President had insulted him when he had posted a photo of a fire at the Amazon in his Twitter account. The thing is the image was actually from four years ago. This was something that Emmanuel didn’t really care about; he was far from being as addicted to Twitter as Donald was; his community manager had simply chosen the same photo than practically all the celebrities in that – and others - social network, from Leonardo Di Caprio to Madonna. Bolsonaro wanted a public apology from Emmanuel and he wasn’t going to give him one. What was more, he had found an excuse to delay the ratification of Mercosur. He felt kind of sorry for Mauricio but Bolsonaro had given him the perfect excuse.

“Apart from the Amazon, we have other related talks about the environment and the help to renewable energies and women’s...” Donald wasn’t paying attention anymore, it was clear.

“You know what?”

“Yes?”

“All these things you said. The renewable energies, the electric cars and all…”

“Yes?”

“Wouldn’t be easier if the Germans didn’t try to pack the US with their cars? I don’t know why Angela doesn’t want to negotiate a commercial treaty…” he didn’t say _Angela is a loser_ this time.

“Well, I am not in her head but as she has told you repeatedly, she can’t reach a deal with you in her own, Germany, as all the rest of member states of the European Union, has to be…”

“What a pity you are part of that thing, Emmanuel.”

And this was the beginning of more turning around that subject.

***

_Bien joué_ , Boris said after the dinner had ended, leaving them alone. Justin saw the French president’s smile and the light in his eyes, in anticipation of what would happen tomorrow. The dinner had been delicious. Piperade, and _marmitako_ with red tuna, and other local delicacies. Emmanuel had been right about Basque cuisine. They wouldn’t have the same next year in the United States, whether it was in Camp David or on some of Donald’s resorts. Before that, the customary family photo with the leaders of G7 and the guests – among them Pedro Sánchez, who had been invited as a kind of compensation, since the security at the border was coordinated with Spain – with the also usual amount of embraces and more or less heartfelt greetings. His aides were already sending him a still of the First Lady, dressed in red, closing her eyes as she waited for his kiss as Donald seemed downhearted and the Macrons amused. It was going viral (4).

Then Emmanuel had announced Zarif’s visit the next day, as casually as he was talking about the gifts they would bring home from the summit. Angela had looked at him with a mix of awe and concern that was more and more frequent when she was dealing with her impetuous French colleague. As for Justin, he remembered how Emmanuel managed to surprise, always. He decided to leave aside his sceptical side that was telling him this would make noise in the news but nothing more. He braced himself for the reaction of the White House aides, that considered the French President as a deceitful young man. But when he was left alone with Emmanuel, decided not to address the affair of the Iranian minister. Instead went for something relatively less serious: the new British Prime Minister.

“So, what’s your opinion about how Boris is doing during his first summit? Out of curiosity, I mean”, the Prime Minister of Canada joked after the dinner.

“It’s a bit too early to have an opinion about that, no? He got out of his car from the wrong side when he arrived to the dinner. And he wants a toy dog”, the President answered, lighting his cigarette on. It was the second time Justin saw him smoke after that night in Armenia. Like then, they were alone, but this time it was not a razor-thin crescent. It was a waning one, floating over the strikingly beautiful Bay of Biscay. The French President was sitting in the shadows, his face briefly illuminated by the flame of the lighter, his hand protecting the cigarette from the light breeze that came from the ocean “So I gave him one (5)”.

“You gave him a toy dog?” Justin snorted. They were sitting on the cream-coloured chairs at the terrace.

Emmanuel laughed, it was a heartfelt little laugh, completely sincere. He seemed to find the story about the dog in question legitimately funny. Not a trace of calculation there. It was evident that he was enjoying the moment, whether it was about the British Prime Minister and his whims or about being on the spotlight again with that gamble on the Iranian nuclear deal. Or maybe, Justin dared to thing, it was the comfortable intimacy of their talk after the dinner. What a gorgeous place the lighthouse was; no, the entire place was beautiful, no matter the hour of the day or the night.

“I live to please, you know. Do you remember that little stand with articles from the boutique of l’Élysée?” he took a drag of the cigarette and slowly expelled the smoke. Of course he had seen it; a little stand with some of the articles that were sold in the gift store of the presidential palace and online. T-shirts with the president’s old fashioned phrases – it said something about that unexpected self-deriding side Emmanuel that he actually celebrated that -, jewels and wrists, notebooks and mugs with the colours of the French flag or the coat of arms of the presidential palace. There were articles for children, too. Colouring books and wooden toys, and what possibly had caught his attention: a stuffed version of Emmanuel’s dog, _Nemo._ "Well he saw it and he fell in love. Absolutely. And since he is also interested in adopting a dog for Downing Street he found very appropriate that a part of the price is destined to animal refuges. The minute after he saw the toy he said to someone of his delegation to buy one of these. But we had known already what he wanted and I was faster; he has his plushie now. He is overjoyed, I've been told. Even if I don't think this can help with negotiations."

"Life would be better if stuffed or real animals could help with geopolitics, but, like you, I am afraid this is wistful thinking", Justin said "So he's adopting a dog. What _Larry_ will think about that, I wonder?".

Emmanuel shrugged; clearly the opinion of the United Kingdom's First Mouser wasn't a priority for him. His eyes were lost on the lights of the city. Then, suddenly, he asked:

"What did you think of Elena when you met her?"

The Prime Minister was taken aback by the question. He had avoided the issue of the Spanish opera singer back in June, when he didn't dare to talk to Emmanuel about their little conversation after her perfomance of _Fedora_. What did he meant asking him about her? Which kind of opinion he was looking for? Was him in search of some kind of validation? What had Elena told about the conversation they had back then? Whatever his intentions, reminding him of the soprano's existence was unwelcome for Justin.

"Did you find her voice was adequate for the _verismo_ repertoire, or did you find it was too light instead? You know, she's been worried lately about that _Aida_ she's going to sing in Zürich next month. What did you think?"

_Oh, damn it, Emmanuel_. Just when he was trying to phrase some vague compliment he made a question not about the woman's physique, but about her singing career and her choice of repertoire. But of course, how could he expect anything else?

"She was quite good as Fedora. From an actorial point of view too" he didn't know exactly what to add; would he receive well the comment that her voice had a certain metallic quality that wasn't entirely pleasant and that showed now and then under a sort of superficial vernish? It was like if she was hidding some steel behind a softer appearance, something harmful under the softness, like the sword waits inside the scabber. Maybe he was biased, after all. Emmanuel had finished the cigarette and light it off against the wall. Would he dare to make the other question, _Do you really confide in her?_ "And later we had a conversation, I guess she told you about it"

"Sort of, some time ago. And I have seen the photos" the Frenchman said casually, leaning on the chair and then adding "But she never has clarified exactly which kind of conversation you two had; apparently you asked her about _that_ book, a suggestion of her manager. The one that was supposed to talk about me... about _us._ "

"Did you know?" Justin asked; he had suspected it for a while, now he had the confirmation "And to think, fool of me, that I had wanted to keep it discreet". Emmanuel's smile in return to his words was a consolation, in a certain way; he could read in it gratitude and an affection – a friendship, he reminded to himself – that seemed as genuine as his little laugh after Boris had left "She seemed quite furious when I suggested that someone..." and he made a gesture with his hands "someone wanted that book to be published. As if I was accusing her of treason or something similar"

He felt Emmanuel's hand on his; it was a pleasant sensation, as usual.

"Justin. I have seen many books published about me in the last years; some in favor, many against – these are fashionable now, as you probably know – and some completely fictional in which, guess what, I am one of the characters, with or without my real name. In any case, with character that resemble me".

"Ah... fanfiction"

"The ones about my alleged erotic exploits... Or should I say _our_ , since we are frequently paired?" the Frenchman teased; Justin was grateful that the scarcity of the light could hide his reaction, as Emmanuel laughed again "No, I mean _printed_ books. There's that one in which I am helping to resolve a crime, or maybe there are two of these – I am not sure; another one has me as the _victim_ of another crime, there's even a scene in which I could read about my own embalmment, and you'll never guess how they... (6)"

"Emmanuel, please, that's not a rejoicing scene to think about" Justin interrupted "And I don't see how this relates to that book Madame Mendieta's manager wanted so much". Or to Madame Mendieta herself "Works of a certain kind can be harmful for a political reputation."

"But, as you see, I've read so many things about myself lately, including all kind of conspiracies in which supposedly I am involved, that nothing surprises me anymore. If some day there's a book published about this it won't come from her, of this I am sure", Emmanuel argued, but looking away his hand left Justin's "Now, how about her _Aida_?" 

"Honestly, I can't have an opinion about that, her repertoire is not my field of expertise...", Justin said as Emmanuel's mobile phone vibrated. Of course, their conversations always ended in a similar way. Someone required his presence, or something happened, or he received calls, an sms or an aide appeared of nowhere and he was gone, he thought as Emmanuel got up and looked at the screen of his phone. However, that the French President hissed a blasphemy in reaction to what appeared on the screen was less usual.

"Oh the bastard", he said, and he could say he was furious "How could he..."

"It's Donald tweeting?" Justin asked; it was a rhetorical question; there was always a tweet that ruined everything. He thought about something regarding taxes, the European Union or anything related, or maybe he was revealing the visit of the Iranian minister before the time and had ruined Emmanuel's bold move.

But the Frenchman looked at him, blinking, as if he was saying an absurdity.

"Donald? No, it's not him; not even Donald can be so low, there are light traces of civilized behaviour on him yet"

Now that was a surprise.

"Bolsonaro", Emmanuel added. "The fucking rat has insulted my wife publicy; on Facebook, to be precise. I hope she hasn't read it already... Excuse me, Justin, I must go to her"

He said so in a cold tone, colder than Justin has ever heard; evidently he knew he was not the target of his sudden iciness, evidently addressed to the Brazilian president. But, still, it was somewhat chilling, more than having him hurling outrage.

"Are you..." all right, he was going to say, but it wasn't the adequate question to say, maybe.

"Good night, Justin" Emmanuel cut him short; and then, softening before going back to his room he said "We can go on talking tomorrow, I look forward to do so." he didn't add I'll take care of the rat later. Surely he wouldn't use the word rat for Bolsonaro, but he would react. The Prime Minister was sure of it.

He was half part serious when he said he lived to please, but – like in the case of the soprano's voice - there was something steely hidden under his manners, Justin knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go:  
> 1) It seems that Trump did throw candies at Angela Merkel during the Charlevoix summit, as he said "Here, Angela. Don't say I never give you anything."; this, at least, according to Ian Bremmer. https://www.newsweek.com/donald-trump-threw-starburst-candies-angela-merkel-dont-say-i-never-give-you-987178  
> 2) More here: https://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2019-08-25/how-macron-pulled-a-fast-one-on-trump-with-a-gamble-over-iran  
> 3) "Melania loved your French wine" was an actual thing Trump said during his bilateral presser with the French President during the summit. She seemed a bit confused by her husband's comment.  
> 4) This kiss, evidently https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O08PD8Fqk14  
> 5) Another true anecdote from the summit, Boris Johnson liked so much toy version of Nemo that he wanted one https://www.parismatch.com/Actu/Politique/La-lucrative-boutique-de-l-Elysee-1647647  
> 6) The series of works of fiction in which he's a character, either as himself or as a fictional version of himself is growing, and the two examples I mentioned are real novels...  
> By the way, about Emmanuel smoking cigarettes; it appeared already on an earlier chapter. I had decided to include it because his real counterpart does enjoy smoking cigars now and then, so I had taken the liberty of showing him smoking. It turns out that cigarettes are also a real thing. Maybe, anyway. https://www.gala.fr/l_actu/news_de_stars/emmanuel-macron-saccorde-une-cigarette-quand-brigitte-nest-pas-la_448233  
> So, that's all for today. I hope you enjoyed and see you soon for the next one. As usual, feel totally free to comment and criticise.


	50. Non sono che un critico

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of having bad moments, on and out of stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as I said, this is the second chapter of the week. As usual forgive me for my mistakes, one of these days I am going to correct them all, one of these days... If not, as usual I will tell you that this fictional story - which is adorned with real details here and there - is fictional, as fictional as my soprano is. That said, have fun reading this one, and you'll find all the references in the final notes.  
> This chapter, or rather the first part of this chapter leans heavily on the Act III of Verdi's Aida, the so-called "Act of the Nile".

**L**

  
  


**_Non sono che un critico_ **

**CASSIO**

Tu, Jago, canterai le sue lodi!

**JAGO**

( _ piano a Roderigo _ )

Lo ascolta.

( _ Forte a Cassio _ )

Io non sono che un critico.

  
  


CASSIO

You, Iago, will sing her praise!

  
  


IAGO

  
  


(softly, to Roderigo)

  
  


Listen to him.

  
  


(loud, to Cassio)

  
  


I am just a critic.

  
  


VERDI,  _ Otello,  _ Act I

  
  
  
  


**September**

  
  
  
  


Kneeling on the dirty floor, she raised her arms, extended her hands towards the man that towered over her, their palms up, asking – no, begging - for mercy. It was a gesture that no one would misunderstand. Her face covered by her hair and leaning to the ground – to that dirty floor so faithfully recreated, especially from afar – , only short, broken phrases came out of her throat. During the last minutes and with ruthless accuracy the man had hit her in her very soul, going from an evocation of the land where they both had born to torment her with all kind of horrifying images; the death of her siblings, an enemy invading, burning, killing and raping as they advanced, and finally the most haunting image of all them: the spectre of her death mother raising from the tomb, her arms turned in those of a skeleton, her face still human and a gesture of rejection in her face. When that last image had been raised by her words – every single one of them calculated to produce harm and force her to do what he wanted – her legs failed her and her desperate cries portrayed her fear. All was resumed in his last phrase, hurled at her as the orchestra, unchained in a series of explosions, seemed to devour Aida as a character. _ You are no longer my daughter, you are the Pharaoh's slave  _ (1) . As she gave an agonizing cry of anguish, he stepped away, indifferent to her terror. A brief silence was made, and there the strings of the orchestra started to play again. It was a plaintive sound, as if they were weeping, weeping for her, weeping for Aida. The soprano licked her lips.

She felt tired at this stage, tired and discouraged due to the effort made during the three acts, and she still had to dealt with her duet with Radamès, that was coming just after this and act IV. To be fair, Aida's presence during the last act of the opera was quite limited. Still, the failure to properly hit the final high note of her aria _ O patria mia  _ (2)  ten minutes ago was still too present in her mind and had joined the streak of bad news that had been tormenting her – and the rest of the cast – during the last week. To fail in that moment, when she was quite alone in stage and her voice was bare and sustained with a very subdued orchestral accompaniment, and being met not with boos and hisses but with a cold, almost mocking silence had been a blow to her, even if it seemed to confirm her fatalism about singing this role. It was not the first time she had found herself in difficulty that evening, but it was the one that appeared more evident. Her terror, that was very real, of not finishing the performance – not out of sickness, but out of her fear – she tried to dramatically incorporate to Aida’s plea during the duet with the baritone. Only later she would discover if the trick had succeeded. For the moment, she was trying to survive, and nothing else.

As the violins stammered like human voices broken by sobs, she repeated, in utter, complete defeat:

“ _ Pietà _ … _ pietà… _ ” one of Aida’s hands reached for Amonasro, but she retired further from her. Between her half closed lids, she looked up at the baritone; as the director had required, he was looking away as if his daughter no longer existed. Most of the production took place in the interior of a fictional museum, but this  _ act of the Nile _ as if was known had been staged as happening under a flyover at the side of what looked like an abandoned channel, with the building purported to be the museum illuminated and seen from afar, leaving very clear that neither Aida nor her father belonged to that world. The effect of desolation with the characters wondering in the middle of all that neglect was striking, as was the dark elegance of the tomb scene in Act IV. But Hermann, the baritone, really detested his characterisation and had complained aloud about his wig. To that, the stage director had replied bluntly that the wig would go on stage, whether he was or not under it (3). So he had resigned himself to the evidence. Besides, he, like Elena and other members of the cast had more important reasons to be pissed about than wigs.

“ _ Padre _ … _ a costoro… schiava… non sono…”  _ she sang. There had been a lot of discussion about if she should be sobbing or not during this section, and the conductor had allowed her to do so. So Elena introduced a little sob in these words. It was easy to feel sorry for herself in that moment, when the leak had caused much amusement between opera goers and critics. Someone, it was still unknown who exactly, had uploaded a generous amount of highlights of the  _ Aida _ they had been recording and that still was on post production. Several critics having written unofficially about the recording, the release of the latter had been delayed and the new date was still to be announced. Hermann had been mocked as that tenor that tries too hard to be a baritone, Olga was described as  _ having passed her prime _ , Piotr was  _ unintelligible _ , the tenor had been considered  _ unable to control his extremely worrying wobble _ and, for her, one of these critics had invented the sobriquet of  _ Adina in Egitto.  _ Which was not very original considering that, decades before, and when Karajan convinced him of singing Radamès, tenor Josep Carreras had been nicknamed  _ Nemorino in Egitto  _ (4) . The same individual, whose review she had read like one would rub salt on their own scratches, had expressed doubts about the upcoming stage debut of the Spanish soprano as  Aida  and her capacity of fulfilling the expectations  _ which in my case amount to zero,  _ was the review’s conclusion. She hated to admit to herself that, maybe, the critic’s prophecy was fulfilling, as much as she struggled to tackle the role properly.

“ _ Non maledirmi… non imprecarmi… _ ” Amonasro was looking at his daughter now, mildly interested, as the director had suggested. “Look”, he had said “Amonasro knows perfectly that his emotional blackmail has worked, but he still wants to be sure that she has submitted totally her will to his and betray the love of her life for the sake of their homeland; he knows perfectly Radamès won’t commit treason unless tricked into that and hopes the perspective of marrying Aida when they return to Ethiopia will be a consolation for him.”

If only critics were the ones that had listened to the recording, that would be disagreeable, but not as much as it was now that so many opera goers and aficionados had listened to the entire, unfinished thing and mocked all of them. With the exception of, maybe, Suzanne, but she had such a short role that they didn’t bother with attacking her. When the original links were deleted and the page went offline due to being sued by the recording label it was already too late and they had appeared in diverse forms: Youtube videos, parodies and other mirror sites that hosted the recording. Elena was mortified and she would like to kill the leaker with her own hands. She wasn’t the only one.

“ _ Ancor tua figlia… potrai chiamarmi…” _ she finally raised her head, and dropped her arms; there was no longer hope of him having mercy of his daughter in this particular matter. Maybe there was compassion in him, as his next words would show, but he was also the single-minded warrior king, a man on a mission, and his daughter, like everyone else, had to follow his orders, in the name of the greater good. The baritone finally looked at Elena with worry in his eyes, along with the kind of solidarity that is often shown between singers during a performance, because all of them, at some point of their career, have gone through a cracked note, a failed entry, a moment in which the body betrays you and everything ends in a disaster. Of course there are assholes out there for whom solidarity is an alien word and won’t care about colleagues having a bad time. But this was not the case with Hermann.

“ _ Dalla mia patria… dalla mia patria degna sarò” _

__ Now he could finally help her to get up, as he threw on her shoulders the fate of her nation ( _ think about our vanquished, devastated people and that you are their only hope of rise again _ ); he pressed her hands, and this was an encouraging gesture addressed to the singer, nor the character, even if his phrase had some hint – vague it’s true – of compassion for her, now that she had totally submitted to his will. As the violins were still, so to speak,  _ crying _ over her with their poignant melody (5), she sang that phrase Verdi considered so important, the very heart of the scene, the moment in which Aida put the first step on the path to the tomb where her perpetual struggle between love and duty will end.

“ _ O patria! o patria… quanto mi costi!” _ was her desolate outcry. Phrasing, everything was there; in the score, in the meaning of the words. That was her job, transmitting that emotion to the audience. Were they still there? Had their attention wandered away? She repeated the phrase, her voice strangling the second time, not as a result of a calculated trick but because she was in real difficulty. Her brain sent her a sort of alarm, and she panicked for a moment, thinking that her voice would crack again in the middle of that crucial moment. Hermann pressed her hands again, and she somewhat got around the obstacle with one of these sobs some Aidas had used in this moment. She thought if they had felt, like her, that level of stress. The moment of danger passed and she could use the moment in which Amonasro went hiding – in this production, they had a rusty mailbox instead of bushes - to spy on his daughter’s conversation with the Egyptian general and the poignant melody of the chords died softly to, the moment after, herald the arrival of Radamès with an  _ allegro _ .

“ _ Pur ti riveggo, mia dolce Aida! _ ” the tenor sang, joyously. Here he was, the always easy going hero, ready for new deeds. The wobble the critic had signaled appeared cruelly in his first phrase, somewhat hidden by the fast  _ tempi _ chosen by the conductor, who was pretty sure the tenor wouldn’t manage to have a long breath during this duet. And given Elena’s vocal state today, she had agreed in that the faster things went, the sooner they would end, to general relief. Now Aida’s mission was to trick Radamès into committing treason, in a totally involuntary way of course, by a mix of cajoling, mockery and feigned – well, not entirely, but surely overacted – jealousy. There was something in him that was young and easy-going, optimistic and charming, and she who was hiding so many secrets from him was about to take everything away from the Egyptian general. It was curious but of all the characters he seemed to be the most straightforward, without duplicity and mostly honourable – even if one had to acknowledge that wishing victory upon Ethiopia wasn’t going to make Aida exactly happy. But yes, he had no secrets, no duplicity, he didn’t want a throne in exchange of marrying a woman he didn’t love, he stood by Aida and had asked for mercy and liberated his war prisoners because he had seen her suffering.

To Elena’s shock, the tenor had been suspicious of her from the moment the leak had appeared. After all, she had been reluctant the whole time about singing that role, and probably she had wanted to sabotage the recording because she didn’t want to sing it again. An argument had ensued – with Chus almost fearing that he should retain her from slapping Vincenzo on the face – and at the end they both kind of agree in which this theory made little sense, as no soprano would consent in humiliating herself to that extreme only because of occasional insecurities. Still, their relationship had somewhat strained even if they tried to work together and soldier up through this performance.

As Aida feigned to be jealous of Amneris – the Egyptian princess was supposed to marry Radamès and had gone to the temple in order to pray so her love for him evolved into a requited one – the general unfolded his plan to defeat the Ethiopians again – it’s always a mystery for Elena why Radamès thinks that a victory over her own fellow countrymen is supposed to make Aida happy – so the Pharaoh won’t refuse him anything, like marrying Aida instead of the princess – that was another thing that confused Elena, she thought that unrealistic to say the least -, all while two heroic trumpets seemed to match his martial words.

Is not that she didn’t have her own theories about the leaker, which were more and more elaborate and absurd. But she didn’t dare to accuse her fellow singers, or the conductor. All of them were now deprived of the royalties that the recording could mean for them. It was even possible that it was delayed a year or two, or even more; she had thought again about all these complete sets that never had seen the light and languished in some drawer, waiting to be released Heaven knew how, if they were released at all. Some recordings spent years in a limbo, some remained in hell. The soprano wasn’t sure about the place of her  _ Aida _ in all that.

_ But what about Amneris _ ?, Aida had to ask then, claiming that the problem was not really her jealousy, but the reaction her rival would have after being left at the altar or whatever the Egyptians did – she would have to ask Chus, maybe, even if she didn’t know exactly if he was an expert on these themes -, so she had other plans: run away from her, and indeed, from Egypt. Since he was somewhat reluctant, her mission was to seduce him ( _ sottovoce, parlato, con la più viva espansione _ ) with idyllic images of her homeland and of a paradise in which they could live together. She spoke to him about perfumed forests and living in perpetual joy, far from Amneris’ reach. As she sang, the flutes were like caresses on the general’s skin, but he was still hesitant about leaving Egypt and run away with Aida (6).

Very well, they had survived the first part of the duet and they were still standing there, without major incidents. But the atmosphere at the opera house – a neo baroque auditorium in the almost customary red and gold, with a painted ceiling surrounded with medallions where the portrait of Molière was mixed with those of Gounod or Gluck, a remembrance of the times where the building had been also the stage not only for opera but for classic plays – was chilly that night. To be honest, she would have preferred all the  _ loggionisti _ in the world right now.

Now that he showed some reluctance in spite of all these seductive images she had created in his mind, she went back to the theme of jealousy, mocking the general and pushing him away – Elena pushed maybe with a little too much passion, maybe to punish Vincenzo because of his doubts – so he was aware that his little plan about rejecting the princess’ hand after a hypothetical victory would never work.  _ You should smile, but be secretly heartbroken because you turned this man in a deserter, and you still have to make him look worse in the eyes of his countrymen _ , the director had suggested. But also  _ be proud in your sadness. Never forget that your character, even in disguise, is still a princess.  _ When she had asked what did that mean – she didn’t know how to translate that in an expression that would be perceived from the last rows of the auditorium and found these observations incoherent with the fact of Aida’s total submission to her father -, the director had shrugged.  _ Just smile _ , was the suggestion. So she did smile, a kind of disturbing smirk, as she discreetly cleared her throat.

Thus they plunged into the last section of the duet, which was probably the last  _ cabaletta _ Verdi ever wrote, even if this was one of a peculiar kind. It was like the characters were liberating the tension they had felt, as, enraptured, they sang about the fresh valleys and prairies in which they would sleep together as the stars shone over them with a purer, brighter light. Only a last thing was required, a bit of vital information, as they were about to leave together. Which route was the Egyptian army going to take in order they could avoid them? Elena had read recently, in an interview with an important conductor, that he had a criteria to judge sopranos in this particular moment of the opera. If they did a little pause between  _ And _ and  _ which route _ when they made the question that would seal Radamès – and their – fate, then he knew they were real hard working singers that knew the meaning of the music and the libretto. Elena had used this little hesitation for dramatic effect, but there was no way to know if the public had noticed it. And of course, big dumb enthusiast boy that he was, he spoke aloud about which was supposed to be a secret military operative.

The baritone jumped from behind his mailbox, proclaiming that his army would wait for the Egyptians in that same place. Radamès was understandably devastated about committing treason and disgracing himself, as Aida tried to calm him down – Elena found pathetic that part, with her character just revealing herself as the pawn she had been the entire time, trying helplessly to tell the general that he should trust in her love for him – as Amonasro, who had shown so little compassion for his own daughter, was suddenly putting his hand of Radamès’ shoulder, telling him that he wasn’t actually guilty; but all the general could produce were incoherent cries. The scene was cut short by Amneris’ stepping on scene. Olga, with bags hanging from her arms as if she had been shopping and impeccably dressed, calling him a traitor on the spot, Amonasro aiming at her not with a knife but with a gun instead. After a little struggle between Aida’s father and her lover – a constant in her life was that inevitably a loved one is going to end killed, the guards and priests arrived and Amonasro fled dragging his daughter with him, as Radamès voluntarily staying behind and surrendering himself to the guards.

The curtain fell; the audience’s applause was, definitely, lukewarm.

***

“You know, I was expecting worse” the bass said

“I would say that we were fortunate they disliked the staging less”

“That’s unfair… it was a great concept, a very intelligent one, in my opinion at least”.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, was Olga Novikova for Radio Carebears”, Suzanne said with a hint of mockery” the mezzo-soprano wasn’t even mad at her “Honestly, Olga, you always make me feel like a harpy. I almost would prefer you hit me on the head with that book you are carrying around. What was its title this time”

“That wasn’t my intention”, the mezzo-soprano replied “And it’s  _ No name _ . That doesn’t mean it has not a title, that means…”

“Enough enough, don’t think you are that special, Olga, some of us have heard of Wilkie Collins too”, Suzanne argued “But sometimes I prefer being hit that treated with the indifference they showed to us tonight”.

There was a tacit consensus about that. Their post performance dinner had something of a celebration after avoiding disaster. Of course that wasn’t a catastrophe, only a night in which they had been in difficulty. Now they were satisfied to leave it behind them, hoping that they would improve in the rest of the run, and waiting to see what the second cast would made of the production. Having dinner together and an early return to the hotel had been part of the schedule from the very beginning; the new, but not entirely unexpected element given the reactions to the leak was they had to be prepared to the now official, expected bad critics. Now and then, some devout fan would show up next to the table and asked for autographs and a selfie. One doesn’t argue with opera goers, Elena had learnt, and, even if it was quite evident that all those who praised her that night had left behind their critical thinking – she could see perfectly she had been, in the best case, not in great shape – the words of praise and devotion were not entirely unwelcome. Devoid of all trace of intellectual honesty probably, but as far as she had some of that, her fans could live without it.

“And, how are you going with Amina?” Vincenzo asked cautiously, again to Suzanne,, while serving her some wine. The title role of Bellini’s  _ La Sonnambula _ was her first big one, as she had said, and she had been studying it for months.

“Well, I am afraid to slip back into Elvira everything I start to sing”, she said, to the general amusement, as she had to sing _I Puritani_ not much later “Eh, I am serious. You know who else had the same kind of problem with Bellini?”

“La Stupenda”, Elena said, relatively proud of knowing the anecdote about Joan Sutherland.

“Yes, one point for Madame Mendieta. But she had the excuse of having, according to her,  _ an appalling memory _ , I remember how she told one time that she had been exchanging phrases of  _ Lucrezia Borgia _ and  _ Stuarda _ once, but, what’s my excuse? (7)”

“It’s Saint-Saëns for me,  _ Samson et Dalila  _ in Buenos Aires”, Olga said, before adding “The last time I sing the role, probably” she sighed “I no longer think it’s interesting”

The truth, she had told to Elena, was that certain stage directors were beginning to think she was too old to play the temptress.

“And you, Elena?” the tenor seemed more relaxed now with her.

“ _ Chérubin _ (8) first and later  _ Tosca _ ” she made a pause “I have to dress as a legionnaire for the Massenet one. As in the Spanish legion, not the French Foreign one”. Chus had joked with her and changed her ringtone for  _ El novio de la muerte _ , which had been  _ awkward _ when the telephone had rang (9).

“I have to record Escamillo next week. And sing it in Barcelona, in that Bieito production”, Hermann said “Hopefully with no leaks this time for the former and in a concert version due to a strike for the latter’s”.

“What is wrong with Bieito’s production?” Olga asked “I have worked with that one, it’s a good modern approach to Carmen, in my opinion at least”.

“It’s director’s night today?” Hermann snorted “With all these legionnaires instead of dragoons and that guy practising bullfighting naked under the moonlight before the third act”

“It’s been director’s night for the last two decades, my friend, unless you are a famous conductor”, Piotr said. “And I have nothing against hot naked guys practising bullfighting under the moonlight, especially if no bulls are harmed (10).”

“Besides, there is a reason why that scene appears, no, Elena?”

She frowned, feigning indignation.

“Ah, because I am the one from Spain I am supposedly the specialist in bullfighting”. Of course she knew to which said scene made reference, leaving aside her loathing of bullfighting itself. She was going to answer when a voice intervened.

“In my modest opinion of opera aficionado, it’s a good historical detail given that the scene is supposed to take place in the Spain of the seventies when there were still so many youngsters who wanted to escape poverty by trying their luck in bull rings, most of them so poor that they only had one decent suit they tried to preserve at all costs so they stripped down when illegally practising bullfighting” Elena pressed her lips as she looked at the unwelcome guest. Tall, and with his aristocratic face looking down at her, as usual. At this stage, she wouldn’t be surprised if he had obtained the recording with some cunning manoeuvre and uploaded it, just to bother her like he had done previously with the photos of the walk next to the Grand Palais “It goes without saying that many of them ended as miserable as they had departed from home, when not beaten to death by some estate owner or bleeding to death in a third rate festival.”

“Well, thank you, these are details I was wishing to know”, Hermann said mockingly. One thing was being gently approached for an autograph and other was a man randomly stepping into their conversation.

“My pleasure” the man answered, without really taking him into consideration “Madame Mendieta?”

“You know, in my country we use to say  _ good evening _ and asking for permission before sticking our noses into other people’s conversations” she snapped, bitterly. Olga looked at her, suddenly worried. Well, she couldn’t see her face right now since her eyes were angrily staring at the man. But she could perceive her uneasiness.

“But we are not in Spain, Madame Mendieta, and I would like to have a word with you” and then he added mockingly “Please”.

It was clear that he wouldn’t go if she didn’t follow him, so she got up.

“Elena?” Olga asked. The entire cast was looking at her, expectant. The mezzo-soprano’s tone when she pronounced her name said everything. Did she need any help?

“Don’t worry, I know him, we have met before”, she said, smiling.

“Don't’ worry, Madame Novikova, she will be there in a few minutes, and in one piece I swear it” he said with an unctuous smile “Madame, would you follow me to the other dining room?”

She nodded. Once they were there – it was empty that night – she hissed:

“What do you want from me now?”

“I no longer expect you will follow my first advise, so I gave up about your relationship with the President. I swear on my honour that...”

“You know what?” she said with rancour. She rarely held a grudge but this was one of her exceptions “I don’t believe you have an ounce of that, in spite of all the blue blood in your veins”

“Thank you, Madame, always so kind with me. And to think I was expecting your stay in Biarritz would relax you. I just wanted to assure you that I am not responsible for the leak that…”

“A moment ago I was precisely thinking about that” she said wondering how he knew about Biarritz, but of course he had friends and contacts everywhere “and it has been harsh to read all these unofficial reviews about our recording. But you know what? I think you have not the technical ability required”.

“I am afraid I am going to disappoint you in two aspects; in the first place, I am not a gentleman…”

“That I already knew”

“… from the 15 th Century” he went on, ignoring her commentary “Actually, I know how upload compressed archives to the Internet, if required. But why bother? Madame Mendieta, as far I know you were, yourself, reluctant to sing this role and finally you decided to tackle it. That’s one of your problems, Madame, and also one of your charms; you think you can sing everything, just like  _ he _ believes everything can be solved if he tries hard enough” he sighed “In both cases, it requires certain… boldness and it makes for an  _ interesting _ er… performance. The problem is that not always ends being a good one”.

She decided to take that as an offence, for her and for Emmanuel, and her lips parted, ready to insult him. But he went on:

“But no, I am not responsible for that leak, neither for the one I wanted to warn you about and that would have different consequences than a simple bad night on stage”.

Elena closed her mouth, uncertain of what to say now.

“Which leak are you talking about?”

“Ah, now you are interested”, he smiled “I am talking of a screenshot that is, according to rumour, doing the rounds of Paris’ newsrooms, but no one apparently wants to take in account for now. It seems to be one in a series. Personally I haven’t seen it but as you know I have some friends”.

The soprano cleared her throat. She didn’t want to ask him anything about that mysterious screenshot he was talking about, the mere idea looked humiliating. And, besides, she was incredulous about his innocence in the diffusion of it.

“A screenshot of…”

“Emails. Yours, it seem. His too. Maybe from your mobile phone, Madame” she got pale. Suddenly she remembered about Anne and the weird attitude she had the last days she remained with them “The moment they will be up the nature of your relationship with the President will be known in all its extent and all his wife’s attempt at hiding it with your pretended  _ friendship _ will be for nothing” and then he seemed to leave her weight on it.

“They are lying. Your friends are lying” she said.

“I expect they do. One of them made a comment about your literary skills and wasn’t charitable at all. He told me that it was the first time he agreed with the President: you are bad at writing erotica, Madame”.

She suddenly wished to be on the stage, again failing at that High C from  _ O patria mia. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand here are the notes!
> 
> 1) Aida is an Ethiopian princess captive in Egypt, hiding her identity and feigning she's a slave, while being very conscious of her royal blood the whole time. This identity she mantains secret for everyone, including her beloved Radamès. During act II, when the Egyptians celebrate their triumph over the Ethiopians, she recognizes her father, King Amonasro, among the captives. Amonasro also decides to hide his identity while trying to rise another army and defeat the Egyptians. A part of his plan is to take advantage of her daughter's relationship with Radamès. Take a look to the duet with Price in her last performance as Aida (in a traditional setting): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_EeFNXVFBeQ  
> 2) Since we were with Price, another video from that night. It's a very moving moment not only due to the aria itself, or to Price's performance of one of her signature roles, it's also moving as her farewell to the Met: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IaV6sqFUTQ4  
> 3) This part is based on an anecdote attributed to Angela Gheorghiu (the reluctant singer) and Franco Zeffirelli (the man who chose the wig over the performer), but it's supposed to be taken place during a performance of Carmen (she sang Micaëla and disliked the blonde wig that came with the role).  
> 4) Nemorino and Adina are the main characters of Donizetti's "L'Elisir d'amore". The comment about Carreras is accurate, that's how he was nicknamed for being considered too "light" for the role of Radamès.  
> 5) I recommend you to put your earphones on and listen to the orchestra from 5:19, in case I am incapable to correctly linking it. It's exactly the fragment where this chapter begins. Listen to the chords and how the violins accompany her. https://youtu.be/d1aXnLhEl-s?t=319  
> 6) This duet and the ending scene with Amonasro and Amneris in a traditional setting again, with two young singers that look the part, even if one can do better vocally: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tv1aZurWcWo  
> 7) Again, this is a real anecdote. La Stupenda was a nickname for Joan Sutherland, just like La Divina was for Callas and La Superba for Caballé.  
> 8) Massenet's opera about Cherubino the character of Le Nozze di Figaro. A trouser role lately reserved to mezzos, but which was first performed for a soprano. So that's what Elena is doing after Aida...  
> 9) The Spanish Legion (which was founded by one of Franco's best pals, eeeew) has a popular song as their unofficial anthem, El novio de la muerte (The bridegroom of death) that tells the story of a young man that joins the legion when his fiancee dies and becomes a death seeker. It started as something that was sung on stage, it was adapted as a sort of more solemn military march. The uniform had caused them to have recent fans over the world because they look... well. https://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/arts-and-books/spanish-legion-viral-tweet-twitter-history  
> 10) We can agree, I think, that is best if no bulls are harmed. The scene of this production of Carmen (that I like as a modern stage) is here: https://youtu.be/7rMt4_C63Wk?t=5166. As stated by our less favourite aristocrat, that's an accurate way to portray "maletillas", young aspiring bullfighters that during the dictatorship had an errant life in search of a way of escaping hunger; it seems a crazy way to climb socially, but many preferred to risk their lives in such a way rather than langhish at home. They often ended killed in some random festival or beaten by state owners when they trespassed their properties. So Bieito (who also included legionnaires there) is on spot with that detail. Even when the naked lad flees the scene.
> 
> Well, that was all, I hope you enjoyed it. Until the next one. And please, feel free to comment and criticise.


	51. Vous, dont l’audace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A room with a view (to the East End)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I beg your forgiveness for not writing this chapter before, but I have been unwell. Nothing really serious but enough to keep me from writing. So here we go again, this one is not very long, but there will be more these days I hope.  
> As always, you'll have to forgive me for my grammar mistakes.

**LI**

**_Vous, dont l’audace_ **

_ Jeune présomptueux, _

_ vous, dont l’audace _

_ et m’indigne et me blesse, _

_ oubliez-vous qu’ici _

_ je commande à la Grèce; _

_ que je ne rends que aux Dieux _

_ compte de mes desseins…? _

You presumptuous youth

you whose audacity

insults and wounds me,

are you unmindful that in this place

it is I who hold sway over Greece?

That it is only to the Gods

that my deeds are accountable…?

GLUCK,  _ Iphigénie en Aulide _ , Act II

  
  


> **PALCOSCENICO’S RIDDLES.-** **_The recruit is about to leave the regiment._ ** A source tells us that certain diva who just made out of her tomb is soon leaving the guiding hand she was holding. We’ll keep you informed about the adventures of this recruit that would, apparently, like to leave her regiment (1).

Hands in his pockets, he walked the streets of Manhattan, followed by a little crowd of advisers, ministers, bodyguards and a handful of journalists. He had his mind in two or three spots at the same time, and there was uncertainty coming from all of these aspects of his life. Syria. Trump. The _ Russian reset  _ that worried so much the atlanticists – and not only. Iran’s nuclear deal. Elena talking about screenshots of their mails, especially of that embarrassing one she had sent him by accident; his speech before the General Assembly of the United Nations, that was currently at its seventh draft – it wouldn’t be the last one, and probably he would add some things on the go, as he was never satisfied –, Bolsonaro’s vow of confronting him about the Amazon – which wouldn’t happen -, a meeting with Harrison Ford – there were aspects of the presidency that he would never get entirely accustomed to, and talking with celebrities he had seen on screen during his childhood was one of these - , and so forth and so on. But, judging by how confidently that man traversed the streets of New York, none could have believed in all of these worries. A soft smile curved his lips, and he clearly enjoyed being recognized and even called from the wooden barriers that protected the perimeter of the summit. As usual, the security display for the leaders was overwhelming, and passers-by were kept at a distance. However, the French President was not to be deterred by that, as the organization had learnt after his two years in office. So, when an onlooker with a really heavy French accent called him from the other side of the barriers, yelling something that couldn’t be, at first, clearly understood, he went there, causing a movement of nervousness among the bodyguards. Even if the man didn’t seem hostile – quite the contrary, he was yelling  _ You are magical!  _ at the President’s ear now – not trusting anyone was part of their job. But with a gesture of his hand Emmanuel stopped them at a certain distance, as he talked to the man like he had nothing else to do that day. Bruno Le Maire stepped to snap the photo with the unknown man himself, and they resumed their march few moments later. It wasn’t the first time he had stopped to talk to pedestrians; an American woman, a couple from Venezuela, another French expat. He shared his time with every one of these individuals, quite enjoying the proximity – all the proximity the wooden barriers could allow anyway.

Those who were looking for the signs of his frustration at his nominee for EU commissioner being voted down in her confirmation wouldn’t find anything in his demeanour. It was universally acknowledged that Goulard going down was a revenge from the EPP and Manfred Weber, that Orbán enabler that dared to question the French President as far as democracy went. It was tit for that and everyone knew perfectly, beyond the ironical commentaries about the French President learning how parliamentary democracies worked. These fools at the EPP had been caught exchanging messages about _killing_ Goulard during the vote. There were many smirks after what looked like a humiliation for him, and to be honest, it had something of that. But damned if he would allow them to see. They still failed to understand the main thing about him, the main lesson no one still had learnt; it was wrong to underestimate him, and it was even more wrong to count him out. And, contrary to what they did, he did learn from his setbacks. He had another candidate in mind for the commission. He was pretty sure this time the candidate would pass the vote.

“So, when is Donald talking to the assembly tomorrow? Is still time to persuade him about meeting the Iranians? Do you have a copy of my own speech from last year? And from the year before?” he made this series of questions when they had barely arrived to the French bureau, as his eyes met with the familiar view of the East River through the windows.

“Probably” an adviser answered him, as other rushed to the hallway, in search of copies of the two mentioned speeches. As for him, he put the copy of the one he had to pronounce and started to make corrections with his blue pen. He added a Latinism that was then immediately stricken through. Then he corrected a pair of things in one of the paragraphs that dealt with climate change and protection of the environment.  _ As far as forests are concerned, yesterday we jointly committed to taking an important step forward in defending the Amazon and African forests – in other words, our planet’s primary forest reserves. Several countries made commitments, France among them. I would particularly like to acknowledge the major commitments made by Germany and Norway. This involved major countries, international organizations, non-governmental organizations and most of the countries concerned by the Amazon, if I use language appropriate for this forum. _

__ Speaking of language that wasn’t appropriate for that, or any forum… That rat, he though again about the Brazilian president as he underlined the words  _ Amazon _ and  _ forests _ . He had attacked him by proxy, attacking Brigitte. An old technique he was familiar with, disgusting in extreme and in a particularly coward way. Bolsonaro’s attitude was so outlandish than even Donald Trump, of all people, seemed well behaved and courteous when compared to him. Of course he had reacted, as calmly as he had managed to and trying not to get too personal, even if he wanted to insult him, wanted to insult him so badly. Disdain, which he could use as a weapon, served better in the occasion, and as the Chilean President stood at his side he had briefly commented on the insults addressed at his wife as  _ sad _ . A well calculated mix of fake compassion and loathing that worked very well. Brigitte had commented that the Brazilian president’s insults didn’t  _ really _ hurt her, that she had seen, and heard, worse. Later, Piñera and Merkel had agreeed about the necessity of reacting to Bolsonaro's (and later one member of his cabinet) comments.  


For a moment he had thought she would made some comment about his encounter with Elena the night before, and how slowly all the barriers and rules he had established – no calls, meeting her when there was a summit in preparation, the increasing difficulty of arranging these meetings – were falling one by one. But she didn’t say anything. The discussion after the two women’s interview had been enough.

He concentrated himself on reading the draft again, as copies of his speeches from last two years were brought to him, still fresh from the printer.  _ All those who wish to join should join, but we need to make progress. Between now and the Conference of the Parties in Santiago, we will develop extremely effective and pragmatic criteria to invest directly in the field and find useful solutions, with a view to encouraging projects in the fields of reforestation, biodiversity protection and agroecology,  _ he read No doubt there would be an eighth draft; he started to add a phrase to immediately cross it out again. Had Brigitte been there, she would say, as usual, that he was making the speech too long. But, for the second year in a row, Brigitte had been left behind.  _ Let us dare to take strong action. Let us build this agenda of reconciliation together, with our public opinions, with our young people, with our businesses, with our investors and with willing governments, so we can say, “we have the facts, let us continue to look into them and change our practices now” – our practices as consumers, as producers, as investors, as leaders and as citizens, to collectively embark on this agenda of change. But staying within this tandem of denunciation and inaction is pointless. I strongly believe that the courage of shouldering responsibility is about facing facts – saying that there are things that can be done now, and others that will take more time. _

And then there was the question of the screenshots that Elena had mentioned. She had told him she was pretty sure of who had leaked them, and that she would make the culprit pay. But it was probably too late to stop the circulation of the captures to eventually appear. He had been told by different sources – these journalists that did exchange messages with him, in spite of his perpetual mistrust – that several newsrooms in Paris had rejected to publish them; especially those which lived from other kind of scandals, but respected private lives, to a certain extent, anyway. No risk of Elena’s unrealistic piece of smut, and other mails, appearing on  _ Le Canard Enchainé _ or  _ Mediapart _ ; they didn’t care about people’s private lives. And even gossip publications would think about that twice, yes, even those who never had a doubt to reveal Hollande’s relationship with Julie Gayet.

_ The courage to build peace, first, because we need courage to do it, because building peace is about taking risks every time; it involves not just defending one’s basic interests, or positions which have at times led to escalation or tensions. In every area of the world, building peace is about taking risks, the risk of dialogue, of compromise, of rebuilding trust. And in so many regions, this is what we need. It is what the Middle East, today, needs. It is what the Gulf region needs. Courage is not about tensions, provocations, retaliations. It is about a dialogue which sets high standards and is monitored transparently.  _ That about peace building in the Middle East. Without real illusions, naturally. But giving up wasn’t part of his personality.

However, times changed, even if only a few years had passed since the last episode of the dalliance of a French President being discovered, and now there were even more means to expose secrets. Who knew if, at this moment, other outlet similar to the one that had published the photos of the walk next to the Grand Palais wasn’t already preparing another article, this time populated with her, and  _ his _ own words. He felt mortified in advance, especially when there was nothing else to do but wait. One of his sources had written about an obscure Twitter account with a limited number of followers that had been spreading the story about his encounters with Elena, based on the e-mails. Garnier was mentioned. The little apartment with that poster too. The individual behind the account introduced herself as a journalist that had been working in several magazines. She had been answering every tweet that seemed hostile to him, from the most popular accounts that were centred around the Yellow Vests or the increasing opposition to the reform of retirement system. But she had little success even if some of her followers were strangely understanding with the possibility of the president having a mistress and her account had disappeared. No trace either of the blog she was supposed to own, but that never had been linked to in her tweets.

One of his advisers came to sit in front of him, fiddling with her cuffs. She was one of the few women of his entourage, it was always like that from the times of Bercy; always having are of not hiring too pretty ones, knowing his wife wouldn’t like that. Not that, until Elena appeared, or rather reappeared, she had one single motive of worrying. The speech didn’t convince him entirely, so he read it again. He had already memorized the text, but in his opinion wasn’t convincing enough.

The rumours of Elena leaving that agent she had made him wonder if she was the one to blame for the leaks, those of the emails and those of the studio recording of  _ Aida _ . The date of the release kept being delayed over and over again, and even if the company hunted for videos and archives to take the pages where they were shared down it had been a fruitless fight so far. No way to stop these things. It was just like Hollande’s photo, or any other presidential affair that in other times would have been covered carefully. Could he expect some indulgence? He doubted it.

“How do you see things?” he said to her. It was a catchphrase he had picked from Julien Dray, one of the historical members of the Socialist Party that was one of Hollande’s best friends. He had been a friend of him, too – the kind of friend that pronounces awkward toasts at birthdays -, until he decided to run for president. Julien always said that, and he had adopted it as if was his own. He remembered his first reaction when he had resigned from the government and looked for his own way.  _ You will loss _ , he had told him. What Julien had never forgiven was his  _ treason _ , once more. His loyalty to Hollande was unshakable, in spite of the ex president’s private and not so private mockery of Dray’s misspellings, physical appearance and orthographic impossibilities – Emmanuel had never laughed at them, never; of all the énarques that  _ Juju _ had met he had been probably the only one that never looked at him with superiority -, as well as difficult to understand to the rest of mortals “Do you think it need some retouches? How we are going with the interview between Trump and Rouhani?” He read aloud the last part of the speech.

She looked at him from behind her glasses. How tired she seemed; she should rest, he thought, but then, if he didn’t allow himself to do so, how all these people whose lives had been, for the last two years, turning around him, could  _ have a rest _ ? He remembered what Elena had written once.  _ Onwards, onwards, always onwards because there’s always someone waiting on the wings _ . This wasn’t exactly his case; there was literally no one, nobody waiting for 2022. But then, there were always surprises, and three years were an eternity in politics. After all, when he had decided to run for president, people reacted as if he had just appeared from the void. Who knew what could happen in 2022, even before. “You know” he said anyway, in all earnest “you should take a rest”.

She smiled in answer, with a touch of irony. She wouldn’t take one, and he knew it perfectly. Later she would joke about it. Smoking, probably, even if she was supposed to have stopped it in the past months. But at some point she had gone back to her old habits. She wasn’t the only one.

“And about the speech?” he insisted.

“It’s good I think” she said. That was another problem, there were few people that really dared to criticize him. It was like when he insisted to his bodyguards they should hit harder when he practised boxing. None of them dared to obey. It was quite frustrating, to be honest. He looked quizzically at the speech again, she didn’t add anything as he wrote a few words to replace a phrase in the part of his speech that made allusion to the ongoing war in Syria. There was no way to avoid mentioning Idlib.

“No one will really care about the climate change part after the one by Miss Thunberg yesterday” the young new face of environmentalism had scolded all the world leaders that had been present last night. Among them wasn’t Donald Trump, obviously. Donald never bothered with climate change, never bothered even with feigning interest. The French President had considered her intervention a bit exaggerated; of course he had met her before, and even received her when she was in Paris. He had found her a little too much overdramatic last night, with that  _ how dare you _ part. She was impatient, of course, which was understandable to a certain extent, but… that catastrophism? She had hit a nerve, and that was an understatement, and ruffled some feathers in World leaders. However, she had been also rudely attacked – both because of her age and her physique – in a way that profoundly disgusted him. He would try again in the Santiago summit. Nothing he would do could apparently please the French greens. The German ones seemed of a more pragmatic kind, and they didn’t look like a less self-entitled version of Mélenchon’s party. Yet.

“It’s almost time”, someone said. Actually, they were getting a little late.

In New York, he had to adapt himself to schedules, and not schedules to him. He frowned as he added another two words. He still had to be interviewed by the CNN, something that made French media jealous and him annoyed, like that time a journalist from a well known TV show used her time to ask him not about the summit that had just ended, but about another interview instead. The interview was crammed between his address to the General Assembly and the Security Council, and, oh, he had forgotten again about Harrison Ford. He wondered if all these celebrities really expected something from him or if, instead, he was a sort of consolation for the guy they were stuck with. “You know”, Justin had said once “no one in the US would look at the French President – no offence – or the Canadian Prime Minister, had they ended with someone half normal”.

Fair point, he said to himself as they walked through the hallway. They were again a little crowd, he, the aide de camp, ministers and advisers. Looking self-assured and confident again, after all the agony over words and pauses in his speech.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go with the notes. There is an inspiration behind this chapter, and it's this article about last year's UNGA in New York. https://www.politico.eu/article/emmanuel-macron-behind-the-scenes-foreign-policy-method/ Obviously, the fragments of the speech are real.  
> (1) Elena is supposed to sing Massenet's Chérubin next, as I said in the last chapter, and he's an officer, remember that Count Almaviva named him during the first act of Le Nozze di Figaro.  
> (2) There's that little scene between Piñera, Merkel and Macron: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WmCvTzmQ_cw  
> As you see, there's little to say in this chapter. I hope you enjoyed and feel free to critizise and comment, as usual.   
> Until the next one!


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